


Vindicated

by Firenation



Category: Supernatural (TV) - Fandom, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha!Peter, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Future, Alternate Universe- Hunter, BAMF!Stiles, F/M, Happy Ending, Humour, Hunter!Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Misunderstanding, More compliant with s1, Not compliant with s2-much, Oblivious and silly boys in love, POV Stiles, Supernatural references all over the place, bamf!allison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-04
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2017-12-07 06:36:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 39,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/745426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Firenation/pseuds/Firenation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. After Stiles' dad died in the Hale fire, the Argents took him in, left Beacon Hills and trained him to be a Hunter. They give him weapons and tell him the family business- Hunting- is a lifestyle, not a job. Especially for them. Argents are Hunter royalty, as it turns out, so Genim has a lot to live up to, even though Allison- his sister, of sorts- won’t find out until later on. She’ll lead them, in her time, whereas Stiles will fight for them, a soldier. Stiles always did like Captain America, it has to be said.</p>
<p>Or the one where Stiles is a good Hunter that manages to fall in love with Derek Hale. This... is not his day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title shamelessly taken from Dashboard Confessional's Vindicated. THEY HAVE SUCH GOOD STEREK SONGS.
> 
> Certain aspects of this universe are inspired by Supernatural and Cassandra Clare's Shadowhunters in The Mortal Instruments (which is an excellent series that you should read and cry over). 
> 
> This was mostly inspired by the similarity in appearance between Allison and Stiles, and that made me think. Always a dangerous thing. Also, the similarity between Dean and Stiles; they are both the Batman. I don't know how that would work, exactly, but you get my point. 
> 
> Couldn’t have done this without Sarah. She’s awesome and yelled at me to keep going and read parts that I forced her to, so thanks for that! Also, many thanks to Manu for the beautiful cover art. I owe you one, you have no idea. 
> 
> Self-beta’d, so all mistakes are my own.

Genim is eight years old when his life ends for a second time.

They tell him his dad is a hero- running into the Hale house when he heard the screaming children on a patrol- burned beyond recognition but somehow still alive, so he goes to the hospital.

Genim gets called out of math- a tragedy, really-by a messenger from the office, and he overhears them while he waits for a deputy. Accidentally, of course, news like this only stays quiet for a second in a small town, like wildfire, it only takes a flicker to tinder into a blaze of a fire.

That’s the way Genim feels. Like the fire is eating him up, for a second time.

This isn’t the first time this has happened- like he’s got to care and worry over his parents when it should be the other way around; they’ve barely buried his mother, only last year. That was a slow burn, the anguish that comes with knowing that you are useless in the face of death. There was nothing they could do, and had to sit and wait for his mother to die, cruel as that might sound. It only took seven months but it had felt like an eternity.

Like now. The seconds stretch on forever, his hands curled into his jeans, drawing blood but fending off his hyperventilation, which is good. His dad doesn’t like it when he panics. He has to keep calm.

Once they’re at the hospital, he has to wait in a sterile, white room that seems to drain all the fire out of him. He sits alone while a deputy goes and gets food. He’s uncomfortable, Genim can tell, because he’s good at reading people like that, the deputy is uncertain and uncomfortable with giving Genim comfort, even in a hug. Not that Genim would want one from  _him._

To distract himself from the wait, he stares at the people in the waiting room. A boy sits on the other side of the waiting room, slender, with a cap of black straight hair; he has face buried in his hands the entire time that Genim is there, so he doesn’t get to see his face. It’s strangely comforting to see someone suffering alongside with Genim, so he feels a sense of kinship; his world isn’t the only world that’s ended.  

A doctor calls him out of limbo and tells him that his dad had a heart attack during surgery, and that the doctors tried hard, but they couldn’t save him. They clearly think he’s a moron because they’re telling him that he’s sleeping, with God now in heaven. His dad had insomnia after his mom died, so a medical degree doesn’t tell you everything, it seems. Like how to deal with kids.

 Genim has gone numb. Screw fire; his hands feel like ice, heart thudding slowly in his chest.

He asks to see his dad because he has to see for himself. He can see a flicker of apprehension in the doctor’s eyes, but he lets him. Walks Genim to the morgue himself, giving him five minutes before social services will arrive and take him somewhere unfamiliar; he’ll probably leave Beacon Hills, go to the next largest town over. Be forced to share his toys with other kids, and he hates people, especially younger kids and kids his age and kids in general. He liked being an only child for this specific reason.

Genim wants to hover over the last remnants of his life, he knows that he’s just ended some part of his life; he’s no longer a child. You can’t lose both of your parents and still be a child.

His dad’s skin is blistered, almost unrecognisable, and Genim stares at his blackened body.

The door swings open behind him and Genim turns to look at the intruder, turns to yell, scream at them that this time is  _his._

He doesn’t expect to see Chris Argent.

The man that his dad had had around for dinner, only last week but it seems like a century ago; him and his wife and daughter; Genim remembers that her name was Allison, that they’d played Pacman while their parents had talked in the kitchen. They’d recently moved back into town, but Mr Argent’s sister has lived here for years, apparently, and Allison’s going to start at Beacon Hills Middle School at the start of the next semester.

It’s not that Genim doesn’t distrust them, exactly, but Genim could have guessed from Mr Argent’s walk that he had a gun, or was used to walking with one; the tell-tale slouch, with over-awareness over their right side of the body, fingers flickering back to where a holster is typically worn. Genim learned from his dad’s paperwork, later, while his dad’s sleeping off half a bottle of whiskey, that Chris is in fact a weapons dealer, brokering a deal with the Beacon Hills Police Department. So he’s a little- reasonably- wary of them.

He just doesn’t know why the hell he’s  _here._

“Mr Argent?” Genim says, and his voice sounds distant. “If it’s not too much I’d like some privacy. Orphans have a busy schedule, and I’ve got two minutes left of grieving to do before I’m shipped off to social services, so if you  _don’t_  mind…”

Argent nods thoughtfully, smiling at Genim’s comments, a little, but there’s sadness on his face. Genim’s voice and any anger he’d harboured dies in his chest.

“My condolences,” Mr Argent says, pensively. Genim nods in acknowledgement, fingers pulling at the tears he’d made in his jeans.

“What if you could get revenge? For the people that did this to your father?” Genim’ head shoots upright, staring at this unfamiliar man with new intensity.

“How?” His voice is hard. “The fire was an accident, I can’t kill a heart attack-”

“The fire was set by someone in the Hale family,” Argent says plainly, eyes seriously looking into Genim’s eyes. Genim is barely breathing.

“For insurance or something?” Genim says, contemplative. He doesn’t know how he’s managing to keep so calm right now. He feels torn apart on the inside.

“You’re sharp, aren’t you? That’ll be useful,” Chris sounds impressed.

“Useful for what?”

“Hunting,” Chris says, and his smile has the glitter of a knife behind it.

II

So werewolves exist and they’re responsible- at least the Hale ones- for his dad’s death.

Genim is unsure whether he buys into this entirely, because it doesn’t add up, but it gives him purpose. Something to focus all his rage on, which he’s got in handfuls. Soon he decides that the remnants of the Hale family are walking dead people.

Chris Argent says that he owed his dad a debt of some sort, and he agrees to take Genim in, as simple as that. Genim is apprehensive, but he won’t turn down a gift.

When the Argents offer to make him  _strong,_ strong enough to get revenge when he’s bigger, to kill the monsters who killed his dad, to make them scream for mercy, it’s a gift that Genim will not say no to.

Chris hands him a knife, and Genim remembers when his dad wouldn’t let him chop the tomatoes last week, but that was a different time. A different life, according to his adoption papers; he has a different last name, too, because he hadn’t wanted to hold onto any remnants of his past. He wants to lock them in the corner of his brain and hide them away.

He spends the rest of the journey back to the Argent mansion learning how to gut a full grown man. Good times.

II

The mother- he vaguely remembers her name being Victoria- hugs him as soon as he arrives, enveloping him in hard, lavender scented arms. She doesn’t take a hint when Stiles tries to shuffle away, either.

She doesn’t smell right, she doesn’t smell like cinnamon, but Genim has got to be practical here; he can’t afford to distance himself from this family, just because they’re not his. They’ll grow to be his, if he lets them, if he lets them in.

They give him weapons and tell him the family business- Hunting- is a lifestyle, not a job. Especially for them. Argents are Hunter royalty, as it turns out, so Genim has a lot to live up to, even though Allison- his sister- won’t find out until later on. She’ll lead them, in her time, whereas Stiles will fight for them, a soldier. Stiles always did like _Captain America_ , it has to be said.

The Argents leave Beacon Hills only a week later, after they’ve gathered the life insurance, sold the house and put his belongings in storage. They’ll buy new things for him, Chris- his father- says, but Genim still picks up his mom’s cook book, their story book, his dad’s old baseball cards, and he will treat them reverently. They sell his mom’s car, which he does let himself cry over, because he was supposed to have that Jeep when he turned sixteen.

He takes one thing, too; a new first name, derived from his last name. He’s always had difficulty with saying Genim, so he used to call himself Stiles, but his parents liked the name Genim; every time the Argents call him that, he shivers with the sudden reminder of them.

Stiles, though, it’s still his last name, so it belongs to him, but it’s new; new for his new life.

“Are you ready, Genim?” His father asks clapping a hand on his sweater clad shoulder.

Stiles holds his only bag, a duffel bag, because the Argents move around a lot and they only have a few possessions. They move with the Hunting Community, and they’re going to San Francisco next, because one of his new father’s contacts has discovered some interesting new leads.

His new father promises that he’ll start gymnastics once they move, like Allison does, and he’ll also start training, because a Hunter has to be strong, and sharp.

“Stiles,” he replies, voice confident. “Call me Stiles.”

And with that, they leave Beacon Hills, and everything Stiles has ever known behind them.

II

Ten years on, Stiles knows that the next time he sets foot in Beacon Hills will be too soon. He’s not really ready yet, even though he’s the best Hunter of his age, _thank you very much_.

Stiles has killed more Omegas than anyone he knows, but he’s not a murderer; he follows the Code. He has a copy of it folded in his wallet, and he’d memorised it in one night, all sixty four principles. He’d wanted to impress the Argents, and often feels like he has to prove himself to them; still doesn’t know how he managed to get so lucky.

He missed Scott, at first, but they didn’t have time to really grow into being best friends, as he’d only moved to Beacon Hills two months before Stiles left. Stiles wonders what it would’ve been like, having a best friend that’s basically a brother.

Stiles has grown up with Allison, and they’re brother and sister with their general bickering and deep unwavering love for McDonald’s breakfast muffins.

It doesn’t hurt that to anyone’s eyes, he’s got the Argent colouring, his father’s build with his mother’s grace. Even Stiles begins to see himself in them, or them in himself, like he’s moulding himself after them. 

Allison has always wanted a brother, so she’s grateful and generous when she realises that she now has one, although he’s quiet, at first. Those first few months, as anyone would expect, he was subdued, almost silent, save for the sobbing at night; Allison had climbed into bed with him and held her baby brother, because she’s kind like that.

That didn’t mean that he wasn’t vicious, though; he discovered that he had a knack for killing things, although it took him a few months after that to discover his weapon of choice; the gun. He learned to peel an apple in one shot from fifty yards out and it’s his party trick.

While Allison was pushed towards archery, Stiles was treated to a second generation Glock 17 for his ninth birthday, along with several rounds at the nearby firing station. Like dad, like son, he guesses.

He learned to use his gun as an extension of himself, to grow used to the feel of the foreign metal object in his hand; father made him stand with it in his hand for six hours, at one point, in the icy garage. His fingers had grown numb around the trigger, but he hadn’t let go. Instead, he kept himself warm with the image of shooting his dad’s murderers, effortlessly putting bullet after bullet in their chests, emptying out a whole cache.

He did gymnastics from the age of nine until seventeen. That was when his training got so intense that the pain of doing both was almost unbearable. He’d noted this after he had had to climb up tree after tree, because werewolves can’t climb; Stiles had to use all his muscles to climb, and he wanted to die.

He became accustomed to doing flips, holding his body weight in a handstand for hours, at the gym and at Training. At twelve years old, he considered going elite, but spending the week-end dismembering an Omega that liked to eat very small children got his head back on track.

He’s lived in fourteen states, most memorably Texas, where Stiles had discovered that he and hicks do not go hand-in-hand, especially when he’s a little trigger happy. Especially with small minded morons. He didn’t shoot anyone, but it was a close call.

He learned to love the Argents, after all; how could anyone not? They’re fiercely over-protective, and kind, in equal measures, and that’s what Stiles  _needs._  They love so  _fiercely_ , case in point, Chris' father dies of cancer when Stiles is 16, and the family drives all the way to Texas from San Francisco.

Even in this week, his parents kept it together and they all got fed and went to bed on time.He didn’t want to have to worry about parents. He wanted to be a kid, and that’s what they gave him, even if his childhood wasn’t quite like others. He’s not sure if his other friends (not that he really had many, they moved around too much for that) knew how to stab a guy in the back in a special place that would pierce the heart and sever the spinal cord in one move. Being good at  _Halo_  and training are two different things.

After his eighteenth birthday, he can admit to himself that he’s ready. He’s bang on six foot, only a little shorter than his father, and the same height as his mother and sister. He’s young still, and stronger than his father, with arms corded by muscle, chest hard with it, he’s still got the lean build of a runner, although his broad shoulders give him away for what he truly is; a bad ass hunter.

He’s able to gain trust easily, given he looks so vulnerable and innocent, topped with his lips; more often than not, he’s fending off come-ons before he kills werewolves.

Back to the point at hand, he’s ready. He can feel it in his bones that something’s got to change; he can’t spend forever harbouring this grudge for his dad’s murderers. He’s not a Hamlet, he’s totally a Fortinbras.  The Hale Pack is going to pay for what they did to him, and Stiles wants vengeance.

Even though the Hale Pack in question has all but faded off the supernatural grid.

When the majority of the family died in the fire, it left only three behind; Derek, Laura and Peter. He uses his dad’s contacts to keep tabs on them, and because these men  _pity_ him, he gets to discover out much more than he would alone or with a PI.

 He learns that Derek and Laura moved to New York, and live in Brooklyn, and the majority of their money gets spent on Peter’s care in a nursing home back in Beacon Hills, and necessities; food, clothes, school books, rent on a pitifully shitty apartment in a bad neighbourhood. Nothing extravagant. It’s nothing like the life that Stiles would live if he had that much money. If they were trying to stay off the radar, there are better ways of doing it, and he wonders if they’re not just trying to live their lives, in their version of normal.

These thoughts plant the first seeds of doubt in Stiles’ mind.

II

A week after Stiles turns eighteen, he tells his father that he wants to go back to Beacon Hills.

The Hales have fallen off the grid entirely, moved from New York and cancelled all their credit cards, but Laura’s obituary on a painfully shitty website tells him all that he needs to know; _friend, student, sister, daughter, niece, lovingly missed._ These are not the words of a vicious, out of control Alpha, but the stats back in Beacon Hills tell a different story.

The accident and unexplained homicide statistics in Beacon Hills and the surrounding towns are still high; high enough to make Stiles feel guilty, when he checks one day after school.

Moving back is surprisingly easy, as it goes. The family piles into the Land Rover less than a week later, house sold and everything packed; it’s a testament to how much they move around that everything they own, between the four of them, fits in the back of the car.

Stiles sits behind their father, Allison sits behind their mother, and it’s like every single journey, except it’s really not. Stiles is silent for the entire journey, for one, a mean feat for him; he’s not even listening to music, and it’s not because Allison stole his iPod again. He just glares out the window at the asphalt telling himself what a terrible idea this was as they get closer and closer to town, noting all the similarities on the journey, all the differences. 

Talk about highway to hell.

They stop for gas as they pull into Beacon Hills, and even shrouded in darkness, it’s exactly the same. So much the same that Stiles would swear that no time has passed, except he doesn’t recognise himself when he sees his reflection at the ATM. That happens, sometimes. Apparently, he has _filled out_ , his mother and Allison have cooed on multiple occasions, so it must be true.

Once he’s done lusting after himself, they clamber back into the car and it’s a further two miles until they reach the house. It’s surrounded by other new houses, and Stiles can feel the suburbia in the air. It’s already making him want to rebel. Even though his version of rebelling in the Argent household, for the most part, has been sneaking in late after a party, slightly tipsy, or covering for Allison’s midnight snack or boyfriend runs.

He pulls out his two duffel bags (one of them is full of weapons that will go in the boot of the car the Argent’s bought him for Hunting alone) and lets out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.

His old house is on the other side of town, but Stiles can feel its presence, throbbing.  The air is the same; the shadow of the forest at the back of the house makes him as wary as it ever did. Stiles feels better once he dumps his stuff in his designated room. The blank walls glint at him, lit by the waxing moon, and Stiles shivers.

He can feel that things are going to change, and the feeling turns his stomach.

II

Stiles has gone through moving about fifteen times before.

The routine is always the same, for him; he unpacks first, checks on his bike and then gathers his bearings. Allison takes months to unpack. It’s always irritated Stiles, because, okay she has a few more boxes than he does, but it’s just ridiculous.

He already has furniture in his room, all white wood, and the bed’s huge while a desk sits in the corner of his room. He sets his new textbooks down and starts to hide his weapons. He puts his Glock in his beside cabinet for safe keeping, and then dots the rest around the room; a blade under the bed, knuckledusters in his desk, silver powder and twine in his wardrobe, Wolfsbane, liquid and powdered in his window seat.

He notes that his room has a lock on the door, and is glad for it. Excluding that, the rest of the space is bare, Spartan; hey, if it worked for Alexander the Great, Stiles is totally on board. He’s kind of a fan.

It’s difficult, keeping the Hunting from Allison, and he remembers once that she’d found a round of Wolfsbane bullets in his backpack, because he’d had a werewolf back in his class, back in Minnesota, and the scent made the ‘wolf back off from where he nosed around Allison. He’d laughed it off and said that he was being groomed for the family business, although not the weapons dealership. The family business he was referring to was the one that involves saving people from Werewolves, hunting things.

He walks past her room and notes that she’s singing a Pocketful of Sunshine. Someone’s eerily happy to be back in Beacon Hills, and that someone isn’t Stiles. Or his parents. They look tight with nerves, unhappy, when Stiles passes the kitchen; they stack dishes, and call for Stiles as he passes. He tells them he’s going to check on Delilah, and then he’ll be back.

The light of his life, Delilah, a Suzuki GSX R1000 (or his baby) sits in the drive, paint job glistening in the darkness, black and shiny. The wheels sit plump against the asphalt and Stiles feels the familiar itching urge to just hop aboard and drive away. He runs a hand over her slick metal, the rough upholstery of the seat, and notes the Kansas licence plate. They always change their licence plate. So they’re from Kansas, this time. Stiles laughs at the irony.

The Hunting Car sits next to the Chevy, and Stiles reminds himself to look in the boot, because that's where they keep the majority stash of beautiful weaponry. This will be the car Stiles is to use at the full moon, whereas his sister's left with her Honda. She's too sweet to say anything out loud, but her resentment is always clear. 

The back of his neck prickles and his hand twitches for the switchblade he keeps in his pant pocket at all times. He can feel eyes on him. As nonchalantly as he can, he turns and saunters to the house. He can feel someone watching him, but he can’t see anything. No luminescent eyes glitter at him, scarlet red, gold or blue. Not that he can see.

He helps his parents set up the decorations around the house, and they’ve lived in some nice places before, but this has to win all the prizes. They have a library, for God’s sake. A library.

He’s in bed before three a.m., and he wishes that every day could be as easy as the one he’s just had. The one that didn’t involve bullets (aside from when he’d had to set up their collection in the garage) or viscera or murder.

II

Stiles wakes up at twelve and immediately goes for a run. Not only is it great exercise, but it’s an opportunity to scout out the town. He hates himself for enjoying exercise.

He stops at the bakery in the centre of town and gets some pastries for his family. Some jackass tries to hit on him while he’s there, though, and it is exhausting. Stiles is sweaty and wearing dirty running clothes, and dammit he just wants some pastries.

The stranger is attractive enough, only a little shorter than Stiles, black hair glistening like Delilah’s most recent paintjob and blue eyes glittering at him with humour. His teeth are gleaming. But he’s probably old enough to be Stiles’ dad.

“My, my, my, aren’t you interesting,” the guy muses. Stiles clenches his jaw and fights back the impulse to just walk out. He drums his fingers against the counter. Cream filled pastries are worth this. They  _are._

“Take it easy grandpa,” Stiles says in response, turning to face the front of the queue. He can feel the huff of the guy’s breath against the back of his neck, and it makes him shiver uneasily, because he’s so close to Stiles. Yeah, Stiles could open a can of whoop-ass and turn the guy into jelly, but that would attract attention to him. And he doesn’t want that. Not in this town. Not this time.

“Aren’t you _funny._ That’s nice to see in a boy your age. Makes a difference.” The guy attempts. Has he got an age kink, or what?

“Can you stop talking? You’re lowering the IQ of the entire street.” Stiles says, giving him the crazy eyebrows, and frowning.

The man grins, a flash of canine, though and Stiles backs up a little, because  _whoa._ He wasn’t imagining things- was he- was that a flash of  _fang-_

“Goodbye, Stiles,” he says calmly, and just walks out. It’s like a kick in the gut, because Stiles did not introduce himself.

Stiles follows him out, and in under a second, grandpa’s gone, melted into the buildings or ducked into some alleyway.

So it seems that Stiles’ reputation has preceded him.

The werewolves know he’s here. 

II

He doesn’t tell his father about the werewolf when he gets home.

He just knows that Chris would worry, especially seeing as this is  _Beacon Hills_ ; the land he’s keen to claim back as Argent land and he wants Stiles to get his revenge at last, so he can move on with his life.

In reality, it’s more likely Chris wants him to become, officially, his replacement as First within their Hunting Squad. Stiles has been hesitant because he turned eighteen only a couple of weeks ago, and he’s still not ready for all of this. So telling his father would be a terrible idea, one that could result in a killing and torturing spree, because without Stiles’ relatively sane influence, his father does use coercive force in situations where it’s not needed, sometimes. He tries not to worry about it.  

The Argents are camped out on the giant couch, hair ruffled by sleep, clad in pyjamas; Allison shows only mild excitement when he throws her the pastry, but she’s quick to tear it open and scarf it down like a feral werewolf swallowing flesh. Lovely image.

 But something in his chest tightens when he looks at them.

Allison’s picked up her well-read copy of  _Anna Karenina_  and thumbs through the pages. His parents snuggle close together like sleepy puppies, surprisingly innocent looking for cold blooded killers. His mother absently flicks through the TV channels, finding something they’ll all agree on.

Stiles lets himself sit with them and act out the part of happy son. They banter over the infomercial (seriously, who knocks over a tub of paint just by brushing against it?), and Stiles wonders how long they will stay like this. Happy, and whole and together.

He bets himself five dollars that Allison will get a questionable boyfriend, and subsequently ditch all of them to hang out with said guy. The last one was a surfer.

It’s actually pretty useful; with her here, they can’t talk business.

Not that he doesn’t love Allison, because he considers her to be his sister, or as close as he’s ever going to get to one.

The anticipation for his evening scoping out Beacon Hills begins to bubble up at seven, when he’s just finished with dinner.

He showers and does thirty push ups, to get the blood flowing. He chooses a tight shirt and jeans, which wraps him up in a neat little bow. Stiles needs to look innocent, this evening, has to; his face does tend to attract some crazies, especially of the werewolf variety, so here’s hoping.

II

The club is hot with writhing bodies, even from the back; Stiles can see the bar and makes a beeline for it, fighting through the crowd of groping creeps. Every three steps his ass gets pinched. He does have a great ass, but there is no need to  _pinch_.

 He’s sweating by the time he gets to the bar and sits down. He produces his fake ID, pleased with it; he’d made it himself. He gets a quizzical look from the overly made up bartender- but she, or he (Stiles is uncertain of the pronoun, but he wants to be respectful) lets him buy a beer.

He nurses his drink and scans through the crowd, trying for flirty and on the prowl, rather than searching for potential murderers. Werewolves have a tendency to stick out, to Stiles’ eyes at least; they dance a little too close, a little oblivious, their instincts screaming at them to mark and claim their  _territory_ , like the giant possessive assholes they are.

Stiles gets manhandled from his seat by a bland looking guy- nondescript blonde-brown hair, squinty eyes- who is capital D  _Drunk._  He tries to grind with Stiles, but there’s no rhythm to it, and his hands are painfully tight on his hands, so Stiles can’t shove him away.

He could flip the guy onto his back, stamp on his throat, but things like that tend to attract the sort of attention Stiles doesn’t want. He grits his teeth and forces himself to look a little helpless. Like prey. That should lure in something.

“Honey, sorry had to park. Everything alright here? ” An unfamiliar voice says from behind Stiles. The guy holding him jerks around and instantly lets go of Stiles.

The voice in question belongs to an actual Greek God. He has dark hair that curls back from the temples, beautiful almost colourless green eyes and a blinding smile that is almost as attractive as it is threatening as he glares at the guy. The curve of his nose makes Stiles want to touch his face, because dear God, he does not look real.

Stiles’ mouth waters as his eyes trace the line of that body; he’s built like a Mack truck. The leather jacket clings tight to the skin, over a v-neck white shirt, and he must be hot, his skin is bathed in a light layer of sweat that Stiles just wants to _suck_  at. Stiles can get behind this. Or in front. He is versatile. He’s also slavering, which is wonderful.

“I think so, darling” Stiles says slyly, trying for vulnerable and failing. The Greek God smirks and probably knows that Stiles wants to be fucked into next week by him.

The creep sputters out an apology and backs off into the crowd.

Stiles lets out a deep breath to cool his temper and libido. “Thanks.” He says shortly, rubbing the back of his neck. He still feels that creep’s hands all over him.

The other guy just smiles at him again, forehead furrowed like he maybe wants to say something but feels as awe-struck as Stiles does.  The stranger stares down at his feet like they’ll have something interesting to say, which is oddly adorable.

“You’re welcome,” he mutters, perfect teeth biting his lip. So naturally, that’s where Stiles’ eyes drop to.

“Did you just save a guy from hitting on me so you could hit on me?” Stiles asks, grinning a little.

 “I wanted to ask you to dance.” He looks shy, even though he’s frowning and huffing out a sigh as he says it. That does it, for Stiles, because the guy’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, and he’s just precious.

“I would be amenable for that,” Stiles says slowly, nodding, and the guy  _grins_ again, but without the teeth; this seems more genuine, at least, lips curving hopefully.

He gulps as the guy moves towards Stiles, eyes lingering on each other’s lips, their bodies, before Stiles is yanked into this stranger’s arms. Stiles grins, catching his lip in his grin, and is pleased to note that the stranger’s breath hitches like a damsel in an old fashioned romance movie, the ones he and Allison watch with both types of popcorn.

“I’m Stiles,” he says, eyes half-lidded as he stares appreciatively at the guy’s biceps, and dear god, all the legends are true, he’s got a Greek god in his arms.

“Derek,” the guy says back shortly. Stiles does hesitate, thinking of Derek Hale for a second, but this guy, while inhumanly beautiful, still seems as human as anyone else.

They dance for what feels like an age, although dancing around these parts mostly equates to grinding, slow and languid. Derek smirks at him lazily and clutches at Stiles’ hips through his jeans, and Stiles is so hard it hurts. The sensation obliterates every other thought in his head.  

He’s eighteen and he has needs, so sue him. A blow job in the bathroom won’t kill him. It's not like there's anything that could kill him here.

They make out in the bathroom, hips rolling restlessly, while Derek mutters things like, ‘holy  _shit_ ’ when Stiles takes off his shirt and ‘so fucking  _hot_ ’ when Stiles puts his mouth to Derek’s chest like he’s wanted to, all night. He’s rubbing his face against Derek’s like a cat, stubble scratching him in the best way, and he wants to have that between his legs. He says as much and Derek laughs, genuine and happy. Stiles nuzzles into his neck and laves at a collarbone with his tongue and nips with his teeth while Derek feels his ass, possessively, in his jeans, making Stiles buck into his hands.

“C’mon, Derek,” he whines as Derek sucks two of his fingers into that sinfully hot mouth. Stiles can more than imagine that perfect velvet mouth around him, that tight suction swallowing him down, and it makes him so  _hard_. Derek grins around them, smile devilish, and it makes him all the harder for it. Stiles groans as Derek sinks to his knees and undoes his jeans with his  _teeth._ He eases Stiles’ boxers out the way and abruptly, with no warning, swallows down Stiles’ cock. Stiles gasps and thrusts shallowly into his mouth, hand curled into Derek’s thick, perfect hair, hands tightening at a particularly vicious suck, and.

Fuck. His hips are rolling forwards, and he’s gasping Derek’s name like a prayer. Derek grins around his cock, moaning appreciatively, his hips jerking shallowly as he slurps around Stiles’ cock. He feels like he’s going to explode in a second, and he does, in fact, with no warning, which is rude. He’ll have to buy the dude a wedding ring in apology.

Stiles holds his heads still and bucks into his mouth, babbling things, promising to stuff Derek full of his dick, to lick him open and fuck him with his fingers. He’s rocking his hips and moaning in pleasure when Derek’s throat flutters around the head of his cock, swallowing everything he gives him. His eyes are dark and explosive where they watch Stiles.

His hips had slowed, but rock when he notes that Derek’s undone his jeans and pulled out his cock, and he’s jacking off furiously to his words.

Stiles brings him up, hand clawing at the bare skin of his bicep, before dropping down to his knees. He’s relatively experienced, but he’s never been on the giving end of a blow job, typically he’s been on the receiving end; only recently, he’s discovered that he is in fact attractive to guys. So he’s been reaping those benefits, but being with girls did teach him a lot.

So he kisses at Derek’s cock, before loosening his jaw and swallowing Derek’s cock down in one smooth movement. Well, it becomes less smooth when he laves at him with his tongue, making saliva and pre-come drip down his chin, but the desperate _whines_ that are coming out of his mouth make it entirely worth it. Derek tugs on his hair, and that’s all the warning he gets before Derek empties down his throat, so  _hot_ that it seems to incinerate everything else, every other thought, all he can think about is how hot Derek is, how good the sex just was, and how much he doesn’t care about anything else. Not even the ‘wolfies.

Derek pulls him up and they swap slow kisses, and Stiles can taste himself, which is marginally gross.

“I have a car,” Derek starts, but breaks off with a low groan when Stiles kisses up the side of his neck.

“Wow. Big spender.”

Derek laughs, sounding a little delirious. “We could go back to my apartment-”

“Or just relocate to the back seat of your car,” Stiles suggests, punctuates the point with a nip to Derek’s pulse point.

“I’m okay with that, too,” Derek says, out of breath. He places a sweet kiss on Stiles’ lips, and snatches his hand. He ignores the calluses and bruises and licks a line up the index finger, eyeing Stiles all the while. Stiles shivers, and is rewarded by another one of those perfect smiles.

So he drags Stiles out of the club, and presses him against a shiny Camaro in the parking lot. Which Stiles really hopes is his car, or it’s about to get awkward when party #3 turns up.

Derek’s hands are tight on his ass, and they swap increasingly filthy kisses, which make Stiles pant and whimper, when Derek rolls his hips against his. He receives a faintly evil smirk when he flat out whines at one particularly brutal thrust.

“Derek,” he says, half-laughing, panting like an animal. Derek just moans in response, and tugs open a car door. He shoves Stiles through it, and he clambers into the backseat, peeling off his jeans as fast as he can. Derek’s mouth is slack with want, and he looks pretty flustered. He runs a hand through his perfectly tousled hair while he pants. “Come hither.” He says in a faux English accent, and Derek laughs. Climbs in after Stiles, and shuts the door. Slides the front seats forward so they have more space, but they’re still cramped in the backseat. Derek is pressed all along Stiles’ front.

He just looks at Stiles for a minute, mouth soft with a smile, before he leans down and just  _bites_ at Stiles’ swollen bottom lip. Stiles lets out a whimper like a puppy whose tail has been stepped on.  Derek moans.

“The sounds you make, Christ,” Derek pants.

“The name’s Stiles,” Stiles replies, and laughs when Derek growls against his throat. “But I know, I’d make a stunning Jesus Christ Superstar.”

“Are you sure about that?” Derek asks, voice filled with coy arrogance, and boy does it turn Stiles on like a light-bulb.

“Fairly certain. You were praising him a lot when I was sucking you off earlier,” Stiles points out, grinning. Derek smirks.

“That’s because your throat was so tight around me, I couldn’t help but imagine how tight you would be elsewhere.” This sentence is punctuated by Derek squeezing at his ass, and Stiles lets out a truly disgusting sound in response. “How you would move while impaled on my cock, how you would look with my come dripping out of you, how you would  _take_  it. You’d take it so sweet, I’d bet.”

“Why bet?” Stiles laughs huskily. He’s hard and reporting for duty. He grinds up against Derek, smiles, satisfied, when his eyelashes flutter, affected. He peels off his boxers, and watches Derek go wide eyed. He honest-to-God flushes all over. And that makes Stiles harder than he’s been in a while. “Lube?”

Derek reaches for the compartment between the two front seats and produces a reassuringly large bottle. He slots it between Stiles’ thighs, and it makes him shiver, because it is freezing, in contrast to his burning cock, pressed against his stomach. He’s dripping pre-come on his stomach, feeling the liquid settle against his navel until Derek swipes his fingers in the substance and licks it off. So Stiles may not be the only one with an oral fixation.

“Last STD check?” Stiles says, and Derek laughs a little.

“I’m clean,” Derek reassures him, a little too keen, a little too nervous. Stiles has the faint suspicion he’s probably never screwed a dude before. “You’re interesting, do you know that?”

“I thought I was hot, like volcano fire god hot?” Stiles asks, all innocent. Derek groans and buries his face in the crook of Stiles’ shoulder.

“Knew I’d regret saying that,” Derek says ruefully, which makes Stiles laugh. Derek watches him laugh, a pleased smile at his mouth, before he presses his frankly  _perfect_ lips against Stiles’.

It doesn’t take long before they’re going at it like a pair of animals in heat.

II

After Derek pulls out with surprising gentleness, kissing reverently up Stiles’ chest, murmuring things that Stiles can’t hear in his ear, he naps with Stiles. His arm is wedged around Stiles’ shoulder, curved tight around him, body heat incinerator hot.

Stiles doesn’t let himself sleep.

He sneaks out when he’s certain Derek is asleep and drives home, feeling shockingly  _alone_.

II

The next morning, he wakes up grumpy and in sheer agony.

It’s not entirely his ass- although he can feel a deep-tissue bruise there, but that feels more good than bad. The little stinging love-bites left all over his upper chest also tingle with good sensation if he accidentally rubs against them.

It’s his head.

The thing about having finely attuned senses, perfect for hunting, aware for the slightest shift in breathing and footfall, is that raves are  _hell._ Alcohol doesn’t help that either, to be fair.

Sheer _agony._

He mumbles a vague hello at the dining room table when he goes for cereal.

The fact that Allison has just eaten the last of the lucky charms does not endear Stiles to humanity.

 

His dad promises to drop Delilah off at school, later, because he’s got to give Allison a ride into school anyway. He also wants to talk to Stiles.

The words make his stomach sink.

The car journey is filled with silent groans of agony, and silence, because Stiles could not deal with Allison’s vaguely weird indie taste in music. No. Just no.

The roads to the high school make Stiles want to die.

That’s even before they pull up in the student parking lot, and he notes the brand new Mazdas, Mercedes, he thinks he even spots a Porshe. Okay, Delilah is a Suzuki, but she’s different; Stiles had to kill two hundred Omegas for her (evil ones, to clarify). Stiles and privileged kids also tend not to get on, because even though he’s loaded now, his mom and dad had to die for him to get this way; he doesn’t want to touch that money. Ever.

So he’s already dreading this new school.

“C’mon Stiles,” Allison grins, and Stiles winces.

“Torturer,” he shoots back at her. His head is throbbing.

She just grins and rubs a hand over the peach fuzz he calls hair. He shoots her a filthy glare that she laughs at. She better buy him a cinnabon later, after all this mocking shit.

“Okay, Argents, pay attention,” their father says from the front of the car. He doesn’t sound amused. “I don’t know how long we’ll be here, but be good. Don’t give your teachers any trouble and I’m looking at you, Stiles, here.”

Stiles fights the urge to roll his eyes.

“Stiles, we need to talk,” his father says seriously.  Allison shoots him a nervous look, but gets out the car and hurries to the school gate, mostly because she’s allergic to being late. The bell goes off in the distance.

Great first impression. Being late on the first day. Wonderful, in fact.

“Anything, last night?” His eyes don’t focus on Stiles.

“Nothing,” Stiles says honestly. “But the Alpha problem won’t be at some sleazy night club. It’ll leave traces in the forest, we both know that. After school, I’ll go out and check out the forest.”

Chris Argent smiles, a little. He looks sad.

“I’ll be home by dinner,” Stiles says. He snags his backpack and hops out the giant Chevy.

“Stiles,” his father says, sombre. Stiles turns back. “Be careful. If it really is an Alpha, then we’ll need reinforcements.”

Stiles’ stomach plummets.

He knows exactly what his father’s referring to.

Or better yet,  _who._

Kate.

Fuck.

II

She hates Stiles. It’s not just that, though, she can’t stand that her brother took him in, what would fathom him to take in a stupid kid, and bring him up, least of all in the ways of the Argents. When he could have spent that time training Allison, focusing on Allison, he’s wasted it on a boy who isn’t even his. She loves Allison; the pair of them are like sisters, though Al does try to defend Stiles, it never seems to work.

He, on the other hand, goes out and drinks whenever she rolls into town. Stays after school and does homework. Goes home for sleep and Hunts, but apart from that, stays away. Allison gets all emotional about it when it happens.

The alternative, though, is that Kate is openly awful about Stiles while he’s there, which, rude. Stiles is a big boy, he can handle his own problems, but when Kate starts murmuring incessantly on about the new Sheriff in Beacon Hills is _far_ better than the last; old, kind of pathetic but mostly sad Sheriff, Stiles wants to punch her.

Worst of all, she brings up the fire on a regular basis. About how the Argents are always blamed for it. Stiles doesn’t even want to think about that. She leaves files, reports of the fire around the house, and he stumbles across them sometimes.

Even the vaguest idea of Kate ruins his day.

II

Turns out, it’s not the best idea to meet a bunch of people when you’re pissed off about something else and not entirely sober. Stiles doesn’t always make the best first impressions, he knows that; sarcasm isn’t everyone’s thing. Because some people are stupid.

Scott McCall still lives in town, goes to the high school, and looks precisely the same, all big brown eyes and floppy brown hair. However, he’s gone and left him for this curly haired puppy look-alike named Isaac. They’re _best_ bros, which is just offensive.

It’s difficult for Stiles to hate genuinely innocent and sweet people, but he’s trying. For Isaac's sake.

Scott remembers him, of course, and goes bat crazy; he throws his arms around Stiles at lunch, drags him down to sit at his table and berates Stiles for the better part of an hour, demanding why he hadn’t contacted him, when did he become Steve Rogers, how long he’s going to stay and why he’s back. He has to have a couple of pumps of his inhaler, which Isaac passes to him. Stiles used to carry Scott’s inhaler around for him.

 Stiles’ headache worsens.

He’s in AP Classes, for everything, and that adds to the headache. Largely, he’s studied what they’ve been studying last year in that private high school he went to (before he discovered the principal was a beta with a perchance for eating high schoolers), but Chemistry looks like a bitch.

He sits in the back of every room, and only one dickhead asks him to introduce himself, some asswipe named Harris, who makes a reference to Stiles’ ADHD (which isn’t so bad now he’s started taking Adderall on a regular basis, but it’s still not something he likes to talk about). In front of the _entire_ class.

Stiles debates putting fruit flies in the trunk of his car, he really does.  Jackson trips him up on the way back to his seat, and Stiles shoots him a look.

If Jackson wants trouble, Stiles will more than happily give it to him. He shrinks back minutely at Stiles’ glare, which makes him smirk. Just another dumb jock with more money than sense, and dick.

Lycanthropy is like a bad case of herpes; when one person has it, the rest of the student body inevitably follows. No one flinches at the Wolfsbane on his person, his very scent, and no one on the lacrosse team has golden eyes- the desire for violence is too much, so most teen 'wolves play contact sports, it's one of their many weaknesses- but there's no sign of lycanthropy on this team, the Beacon Hills Cyclones. Stiles judges them anyway. 

All the same, Stiles is glad when the day’s over. Scott throws an arm round him before he reaches freedom.

“Dude, I’m sixty per cent certain I’ve never seen that girl before in my life. I think I would remember. She’s, like, perfect.” Scott says, in that shy, awestruck way that makes Stiles groan.   He looks in Scott’s direction, and only sees Allison.

Wonderful.

He may have to kill Scott.

 

He warily introduces the two, although Scott stares at his shoes and shuffles a little when Allison smiles at him, like she’s smiling at a baby animal. Stiles rolls his eyes when Scott trips up over his words.

He doesn’t need to see this. Allison will eat him alive.

“Alright, I’m gonna go and do some homework.” Stiles lies easily. He’s always been a good liar. “I’ll catch up with you later, Scott, and Allison, I’ll see you at home. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. ” He nods seriously at them both before walking out of school.

He can hear that Scott’s having a panic attack and stuttering out some response.

It’s fun being Satan.

II

It’s less fun walking through the woods in the freezing cold, but hey, it’s nothing he’s not totally used to.

The forest isn’t familiar, although he feels like it should be. It’s not like his dad ever let him mess around in the forest before his mom died, really, but after, he and Scott used to sneak out into the forest behind his old yard and play lacrosse.

Sometimes for hours. Stiles shudders to think of the danger that they could have gotten into in the forest; he wonders occasionally why they didn’t, the two months before the fire; there were two full moons, and Scott and Stiles probably messed about in the woods during that time.

Privately, he thinks that the Hale clan did a great job regulating the town and its creatures before they died, but always stops that line of thought in its tracks; he has to remind himself that the Hales were not good people or leaders, and he should not be allowed to pity them.

They’re still in the back of his mind when he peruses the forest. He follows the trail for the most part, and takes photos on his phone of good opportunities. For instance, the small stream that parts the forest; that would be useful to set up tripwire around.

He does leave the trail when he gets to the burned out remains of the Hale house.

The next thing he knows, he’s shoving open the door with all his strength. It creaks open and Stiles has to pick his way through charred debris, stepping carefully on creaking floorboards, wincing at any remnant of human life; a segment of couch, a metal photo-frame melted on the floorboards.

So he jumps about six feet in the air when he hears his name.

“Stiles?” Derek repeats, voice filled with something akin to awe, with an accusatory edge.

“Derek?” He says, in shock, because yeah he’s felt completely shitty since their bathroom and Camaro fun; one night stands don’t suit him, this one in particular because it was one amazing  _fuck._

Dear god Derek looks  _good_. He’s wearing what Stiles assumes are running clothes, shirtless with low hung black pants. Stiles slavers at the cut of his fucking marble abs, but fuck, he needs to pay attention.

“Stiles?” Derek grins, and advances, tracking up and down Stiles’ body. Stiles shivers under the weight of his gaze, and everything leaves his mind, just the feel of Derek’s body a few feet away. “What are you doing here?”

Stiles isn’t sure if anyone has ever looked that happy to see Stiles. One night stands gone wrong apparently enjoy his company. Nice to know. 

“My job,” Stiles says unthinkingly, which, stupid. He’s stupid. Because Derek frowns, mouth curving into a grimace. He shifts on his feet, changing his stance, and Stiles is suddenly acutely aware of the Wolfsbane in his backpack.

Derek sniffs the air, a small gesture that would otherwise be invisible, if Stiles weren’t a paranoid bastard. Stiles isn’t sure, in the light, but he thinks that Derek’s eyes flood light blue. But they’re quickly hazel again, so he tries to ignore it.

Then it clicks, a waterfall of realisation that knocks him out.

_Derek_  Hale. In  _Beacon Hills_. What was he thinking?

“Derek  _Hale_?” Stiles half-shouts, because he literally has the worst luck.

He doesn’t give Derek time to react, or lie; there’s no point, Stiles knows the truth now. Wonders how he didn’t realise it last night.

So Stiles does the logical thing and throws himself at Derek.

II

Derek slams into him, like he hadn’t even bothered to move. Like he was as shocked as Stiles is, but without the angry element. Before they even slam into the ground, Derek wraps his arms around Stiles’ torso, and holds him still in a vice-like grip. It’s a matter of strength versus skill. Stiles head-butts him, but his jaw is made out of actual concrete.

“Stiles  _Argent_?” Derek growls, and it’s not like Stiles can reply.

 There’s currently a hand over his mouth. He bites at Derek’s hand and he lets go. Stiles is breathing hard and Derek’s just looking into his face, jaw clenched, but eyes certain. “You’re not an Argent. Not by blood, at least.”

“I  _am_  an Argent. And you fucking killed my family. And you’re helping the Alpha, as a part of his pack,  _murderer_.” Stiles struggles, and in his shock, Derek has let him go. Arguably the most stupid mistake he’s ever made.

Stiles punches him, forgetting his training for an instant, just using the anger that’s coursing through his veins, like poison. His hand crunches against Derek’s cheek, and he doesn’t even flinch, but Stiles does because his hand is on  _fire._

He reaches for his knife, a seamless movement, but he doesn’t even have that much time. Derek tackles him. All the breath is knocked out of him as he slams into the floorboards, feels them give way underneath him. He shouts in frustration. Derek growls at him, and flips him over, so Stiles lies on top of Derek. His arms scream in agony as they’re held in Derek’s insanely tight grip. Omegas aren’t meant to be this strong.

“Is that why you slept with me? Just to hurt me?” Tears, actual _tears_  are in his eyes. This is his worst job ever. He’s not supposed to be  _soft_.

“ _Stiles_ ,” Derek says, but it’s said like a warning, a threat almost. Like Derek could threaten him when he has nothing to lose.

 “I lost everything in that fire,” Stiles snarls. “I lost my  _dad_. You lost most of your family but I lost  _all_  of my family. Because that’s what my dad and I were- he was my  _only_  family, the only one I had left, and you  _stole that from me._ " He's struggling again, legs going wild, hands clawing at whatever of Derek's he can reach.

“ _No one_  in my family started that fire. And I’m  _not_ part of the Alpha’s pack,” Derek says through gritted teeth, hauling Stiles closer to him, arms tight around his upper body. His mouth is at Stiles’ ear, and okay, it makes Stiles shiver but that’s just because his body remembers the sensation of Derek’s teeth nipping at his earlobe.

 “Why should I believe you?” Stiles asks, but he already knows the answer to that.

For all that he’s waited for revenge, he’s always questioned why the Hales would start the fire; he’s done his research. He knows that only Derek and Laura had survived the fire, and they lived meagre lives, even with the life insurance money, and if they’d  _lived_ like Stiles would with that kind of money, then he could argue that they killed their family just for their money.

A memory floats back to him; he remembers sitting in the hospital, the day of the fire, and the boy. The boy with the ink black hair who had his face buried in his hands for the two hours that Stiles was there, the boy who was alone. Stiles hadn’t thought he’d noticed him.

He feels strangely serene, although he’s back at step one if he admits defeat and comes to his senses and realises that the Hales didn’t kill the rest of their pack.

“Because I lost everything too. I wouldn’t lie about that.”  Derek says quietly, and all the fight’s gone out of his voice too. His arms fall slack around Stiles when he feels that he’s stopped moving. Stiles is pressed on top of him, curled into himself, face pressed against Derek’s chest. Derek has pressed his chin to the top of Stiles’ head.

He knows that he should move away from Derek.

He doesn’t.

Not for a long while, just lies on his chest, breathing with Derek, hitching breaths taken together.

“Genim Stilinski,” Derek murmurs a little while later, eyes wide with realisation.

Stiles releases a full blown shudder at his name. It’s been years since someone’s said his full name.

“How long has it been since someone’s called you that?” Derek mutters, and his arms curve around Stiles again, holding them together through Stiles’ shudders, though there was no distance to begin with.

Then Derek freezes, and Stiles wonders why he hadn’t moved before. Stupidity, is what that is.

He moves stupidly fast, flipping Stiles onto his back, hand covering his mouth again, rough calluses on his palm catching Stiles’ lips. Stiles starts to protest, but stops when he realises that the room’s been eclipsed by a shadow.

The Alpha’s shadow.

Stiles wriggles, hand reaching for the blade in his sock, and Derek growls, a little.

“ _No,_ ” he mouths firmly, eyes flashing electric blue.

He knows that he shouldn’t find those eyes attractive; the very idea of them used to make him feel faintly ill because they reminded him of blood and gore and viscera. But Derek’s eyes are a different matter. They’re warm, surprisingly so for a colour closer to ice than fire, and they’re uncertain as they bore up into his. Stiles is certain, however, that there will never be a name for a colour for those eyes. They’re shockingly gorgeous.

Derek makes Stiles wait for the shadow to disappear, for the Alpha to get far enough away that Derek can no longer hear him. Perhaps he or she’ll think Derek brought prey back to the house.

He frowns at Derek and licks the palm of his hand in retaliation. Derek shivers, irises suddenly huge, and Stiles can feel that he’s getting hard. Derek’s panting minutely.

Stiles pulls away, and every other thought that isn’t, Derek  _is so fucking hot when he’s sweaty_  and  _he still smells so good_  and  _his body feels so good on top of me_  leaves his mind abruptly. The Alpha’s passed, anyway; light floods into the room.

He crushes his mouth to Derek’s, feels the initial resistance, where his mouth remains stubbornly closed, until Stiles whines in need. He’s not sure why he does, but it’s probably to do with the raging boner situation he’s got going on in his pants.

It doesn’t take long for them both to get naked and fool around again, like this isn’t the worst idea in the world.

Afterwards, Stiles kinda feels like he just flew into the sun.

They snuggle—there’s no other word for it—for a while, until it hits Stiles that he can’t do relationship stuff, because he’s late for dinner and he can’t give Derek what he deserves, he can’t, he can’t spoon with him, Christ.

So he pulls away and puts on his clothes, while Derek watches him from the floor, phosphorous eyes unreadable. Once Stiles is convinced that he’s still got the weapons he had on him, he drops a kiss to Derek’s forehead, and leaves.

And Derek lets him, without a word.

II

He makes it back to the Argent house a little late, but it doesn’t exactly matter, because Allison’s nowhere to be seen. He explains shortly to his parents that he didn’t see anything, because, technically he didn’t, and he doesn’t even consider telling his father about Derek.

This is when Stiles realises that he’s actually fucked.

The nail in his coffin is that he is furious with Christopher Argent; he’s lied to Stiles, tried to manipulate him, and Stiles cannot forgive him for pitting him against innocent werewolves to further his own means.

 There is something that’s being kept from Stiles, it’s blatantly clear, and he’s going to find out what that is. It’s always a sign you’re screwed if you side with the werewolves, he knows, especially when you’ve committed your life to killing them. Bad ones, at least. 

II

Stiles is having difficulty breathing.

It’s nothing to do with the astonishingly good grade he’d gotten in a surprise pop quiz earlier on, though that had been a pleasant surprise. Nor to do with having to observe Isaac and Scott accidentally flirt in the cafeteria, though that had been stomach churning, and having to partner with Lydia during an AP Chemistry experiment, which was a new sort of horror in itself, because she’s no longer tolerable, even though Stiles still secretly thinks she’s absurdly perfect and hot.

No. The nerve-crunching horror is that he wants, no, scratch that, under his skin, bone deep, _needs_  to go back to the Hale house. He needs to see Derek’s face, see his smile, see the way his hair looks after Stiles has run his hands through it, and yeah, he wants to see him naked.

This is all a very stupid and x-rated infatuation, Stiles does realise.

He still hops on Delilah as soon as the school day ends, and speeds to the Hale house.

He parks Delilah at the edge of the forest, and patting the knife in his pocket, descends. 

Stiles is unsure when his life became a Lifetime movie.

II

He gets ten yards near the Hale house, and Derek saunters out, shirtless and sweaty, like he’s just finished working out. The movement of his denim clad hips is mesmerising. Stiles doesn’t mean to, but he licks his lips.

Derek looks severe, like a very male, hairy and buff Miss McGonagall.

Stiles feels his face flush.

“You,” Derek says, but it’s with some fondness, along with a hint of something that might be a flirtation. His jaw is clenched into an edible looking line. Stiles is apparently going through teething, because everything about Derek is just making him want to bite.

“Me,” Stiles responds, scrubbing a hand over his head. His clothes abruptly feel unbearably tight. “Back again. For a repeat order of yesterday. With a side of splinters and stubble burn, like usual.”

So, apparently he has a lot of false bravado that’s just been hiding under the skin.

He’s hoping to have sex three days in a row, okay, he’s going to be hopeful. It’s not like Stiles doesn’t ever have sex, but it’s been long enough that he’s as desperate as a dehydrated athlete at the end of a race.

“You’re the Good Hunter,” Derek says, voice dripping with disdain at his nickname.

“You’ve heard of me?” Stiles says. “Now, that’s flattering. I hope you’ve heard only good things.”

“Moral Hunters don’t tend to last very long,” Derek points out.

“I’m still standing,” Stiles says, and immediately starts humming the tune.

“Why should I do this with you?” Derek asks, face abruptly frowning. He’s clenched his jaw again.

“Why not?” Stiles asks, running a hand unashamedly through his hair. “It goes without saying that I’m not going to tell Christopher or Victoria. I wouldn’t do that.”

“How would I know?” Derek states, and it’s not a question. It’s the furthest thing from a question Stiles has ever heard. Stiles is a little offended.

“I wouldn’t betray your trust like that,” Stiles says shortly. “Listen to my heartbeat. Not a tremor, notice? Besides, if I were going to tell them, I would have done it last night. Which I obviously didn’t.”

Derek’s face is still stony, difficult to read. His eyes are calculating; Stiles can practically hear his brain whirring. His body language is impassive.

That is, until Stiles stalks forward, letting his body lead the way, rather than his brain. He tries to shove aside the part of him that would feel embarrassed, because he knows that Derek finds him attractive, has heard Derek’s exhalations into his skin, the flattering ones that are even making him blush now.

He tracks Derek’s body with his eyes; licks his lips, imagining the taste of Derek’s sweat on his tongue, pure salt, and the feel of his muscles under his hands. He wants to pull Derek towards him by his belt loops, and grip the material very hard while Derek mouths at the love bites that already litter his skin, the sexiest bruises to ever bruise Stiles’ skin.

He wants it all, very much.

Damn instincts.

Derek’s gaze gets unbearably heated, especially when Stiles gets all up in his space, like he’s wanted to for the past five minutes or so.

“Do you want to?” He asks, voice cracking in a totally embarrassing way. His mouth is only centimetres away from Derek’s perfectly shaped, slightly moist lips. They part as Derek looks at Stiles’ lips, then back at his eyes. Stiles’ gaze is solely focused on his mouth, it has to be said, though he is sharply aware of the bulge at the front of Derek’s pants. The rapidly stiffening bulge. Stiles feels a bolt of satisfaction. “Fondue, I mean.”

Derek yanks him forward by his belt loops, and Stiles crashes into Derek, mouth first. Straight into Derek’s burning, nipping kiss that’s as playful as it is painfully good. They stagger backwards into the Hale house, Derek holding Stiles to him with strength that should repulse him, but simply makes him hot.

After, Stiles threads his fingers through his hair, lets himself bask in the afterglow for a few moments, before he pulls away.

He places a kiss at the edge of Derek’s lips before ducking away.

He makes it home by 5. Training starts at 5.30.

He has time for a shower, and tells his father that he was doing patrols.

Christopher pats the top of Stiles’ head and asks him that since he’s volunteering so nicely, does he mind doing a patrol in that half of the forest every day after school?

Stiles has no problems with this.

II

So he finds himself returning to Derek’s house the next day and the day after that and the day after that, after another stressful and banal day at school. So what he has with Derek, what they do (to each other), is a great stress relief. Better than Prozac.

Stiles, very pointedly, does not think about what  _this_ is. What Derek means to him, what they are to each other. That is ignored. Besides, it's not like Derek says anything about seeing him outside of this, so Stiles knows that they're on the same page. They both want this twisted version of a Booty Call. 

The house, the time they carve out for each other, feels ethereal and unlike something Stiles has ever known or heard about. Time seems to fall away, everything that’s lycanthropic and hunting, disappears until it’s just the two of them, burning for each other. Stiles isn’t stupid; he says that he’s doing patrols every day after school for an hour, and that’s all they have; then Stiles will leave, race across town to get home just in time for Training. They don’t see each other at the weekend, because Stiles Trains and studies and spends time with the Argents by the TV (and texts Scott, but only occasionally, and they never meet up outside of school), which sucks, but Stiles cuts the last half an hour of his last free period on a Monday and goes to Derek to make up for it.

It’s the most irresponsible Stiles has ever been, and he’s proud for his rebellion of sex.

Especially when it feels so good as it always does.

The way his mouth presses against Derek’s, the firm seam of his lips. His hot tongue, which feels excruciatingly good against Stiles’ skin, a kind of hurt that feels good, too. His teeth, when they nip at Stiles, truly playful in a way he wouldn’t have associated with someone Derek.

The way that they launch at each other, snipe at each other, like the way Stiles mocks that Derek groans like he’s in pain when he finally pushes into Stiles, the way that Stiles begs for Derek’s cock, Derek mocks that, but Stiles knows that he likes it. Like Stiles loves the noises Derek always makes, no matter the position.

The way his hands grasp at Stiles, weak and shaking when Stiles bites at his neck, licks over that point that he knows makes Derek’s knees weak (proof, Derek had been carrying Stiles up the staircase, Stiles bit that point, and Derek’s knees actually gave out; neither had been seriously hurt, they’d just laughed together, while Derek enviably healed, Stiles received a few bruises, but it was all good).

Derek manages to get under his skin, somehow, under that neutral façade that he wears at school, around the Argents, so he doesn’t break. Derek worms his way into Stiles’ head, so he finds himself thinking of Derek, when he’s not there, daydreaming about him, _dreaming_ about him, and he doesn’t even mind.

Stiles likes it all, which is incredibly worrying.

II

Stiles almost gets a heart attack from a text one Thursday before the end of April.

_Raid at the Hale place-_ C

It’s during last period AP English, and he wonders how anyone could focus on Macbeth when Derek could be dying any moment now? He springs up from his desk, shoving his crap into his bag, and just says that he has a family emergency. Works like a charm because he hands homework in on time and also has a polite death glare.

He’s on Delilah less than a minute later, and roaring away from school premises. Stiles is certain that he should be arrested for breaking most of the speeding laws that there are, because he gets to the Hale place in ten minutes. He parks the bike just by the porch, and sprints inside, tossing his helmet away. He hears the crack of the plastic that means he’s totally going to have to buy yet another helmet, but that isn’t important. Not compared to this.

“Derek?” He bellows, and sweat’s broken out along his chest, his lower back. He swears- if his father’s killed Derek- he doesn’t know what he’ll do, what he can do, what he even wants to do, but Derek can’t be dead-

“Stiles,” Derek says, surprised, standing at the top of the staircase. He’s down it in a heartbeat, standing in front of Stiles, clad in that grey purple Henley Stiles likes so much and his normal jeans. He’s barefoot, and he looks so warm and alive that Stiles just wants to take him into his arms. But he can’t.  His hands are shaking so badly, for one.

“My dad’s coming here,” he says. “With the rest of the Hunt. You need to go. Do you have somewhere else that you can stay?”

Derek’s looking at him so incredulously, Stiles doesn’t know whether he’s said something in Russian. It’s happened before, but usually while Stiles is in the throes of climax. Derek’s looking at Stiles like he’s just informed him that he has a thing for dead chicks and cross dressing.

“Derek, go,” he urges. “Don’t just stand there staring at me,  _go._ ” He gestures wildly.

Derek frowns, and Stiles can see the hesitation scrawled across his face. Stiles isn’t hesitant, surprisingly. All he knows is Derek is  _Derek_ , and Stiles isn’t going to let him die. Rule number one; innocent werewolves shall not be killed. He’s going to uphold that, and if that means betraying his father like this, so be it.

“ _Go_ ,” Stiles snarls, now angry, because he doesn’t understand why Derek is just gaping at him.

“Why?”

“Can we get onto the self-analysis later? You need to get out of here,” Stiles shouts, pushing Derek towards the door. Derek goes without a fight, surprisingly.

His face is unreadable, but he brushes a hand along Stiles’ cheekbone, before he gets into the Camaro and drives off without so much as a second glance. Stiles wonders if he drives everywhere bare foot, the freak.

Stiles lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding and just lets himself sink to the porch floor. Stiles knows that he should be tormenting himself right now, but all he feels is empty. Most worrying, Stiles just hopes that his path won’t cross with his father’s.

The top of his cheek tingles from Derek’s touch, and he pushes all thought of Derek from his mind while he waits for his father and the rest of the Justice League.

Stiles has authority with these men. He’s worked with them for ten years, and he’s trusted them to keep him alive, and vice versa. He’s killed for these guys, he’s friends with them, and it’s true that Hunters are supposed to be brothers in arms. It’s part of the reason why Stiles is given so much freedom- because he has ten years of being trustworthy on his record. Ten years of doing exactly what he’s told.

They don’t know that everything has fallen apart.

II

“There’s nothing here,” Stiles says when the cavalry finally arrive.  “Just rotting wood and a cracked foundation. There’s no signs that anyone’s been living here, at all. If you don’t include rats.”

Which confuses the hell out of Stiles, actually, because he’d assumed that Derek lived in the Hale house, because that’s where he has sex with Stiles on a daily basis; he’s always there. But clearly, he doesn’t actually live in the house. Stiles is going to have words with Derek, if that’s the case, because they’ve been having pretty mind blowing sex in the house for two weeks, but Stiles always complains about tetanus and the mange because those are things that Stiles could get. He doesn’t exactly heal like Derek does.

There’s no suspicion in their eyes when they look at Stiles, and that makes him feel guiltier than ever. Aside from that one time he broke Allison’s 1D CD and blamed it on their neighbour’s cat; every meow after that became an accusatory _excuse me._

 The Hunters still check around the house, just in case Stiles’ relatively experienced eyes have missed something. He hasn’t, okay? He’s had ten years of practice at this. He knows how to hide his tracks and equally, how to spot tracks. His father stays on the crumbling porch with him, and he’s looking at Stiles with a tired, parental sort of wariness.

“How did you get over here so fast?” Chris asks, hands folded neatly behind his back, and his tone suggests nothing but the usual, patient sort of fondness. There’s something about it that sets Stiles’ teeth on edge.

“Ditched English. I assumed it was a sort of come now kind of thing. My mistake.” Stiles explains. Chris smiles.

“Just don’t make a pattern of it, son,” Chris says, slapping a hand on Stiles’ shoulder. He flinches, a little. “Can’t let your grades drop, can we?”

“I’ve got a four point five,” Stiles points out. “Can I go and do my homework, actually? I’ve got a paper due the day after tomorrow and I haven’t even looked at it yet.”

Chris rolls his eyes good-naturedly, and lets Stiles leave. He picks up his helmet, with the new crack in the visor, and roars away. His heartbeat is still loud in his ears.

II

The next day, Stiles gets fucked into the floorboards.

It feels like something more, deeper than it usually does, and this thought is confirmed by the emotional, sharp kiss Derek gives him afterwards. All teeth and soothing tongue and after that, glancing kisses along his jawline as he pulls out with the kind of gentleness that’s otherwise unbeknownst to Stiles.

Stiles doesn’t know what it means, but he wants to.

II

Reality slaps him full in the face when he bumps into Boyd at school, the next Monday.

The kid, Boyd- Stiles hadn’t known him before, and he’s sullen and quiet at lunch, always alone whenever Stiles sees him. But Boyd isn’t really on his radar until he shoves past Stiles one day in the corridor. It’s hard enough to sting, a little (he blames Derek, he’s got a massive hickey there from last Friday, and dammit it still hurts) so he snaps out an annoyed, “hey!”

Boyd turns to look at him, but he doesn’t even look like he’s really even seeing anything and everything is hollow. Stiles knows that feeling all too well, has the t-shirt and everything.

“Sorry,” he says emotionlessly, and stalks down the hallway. The kids part like the waves before Moses, and they only do that for the likes of Lydia and Jackson- the Prom King and Queen, their relationship four years strong, high school  _married._  Stiles hates them, but that’s nothing new.

He can’t get Boyd’s face out of his head- that haunted look- the one that Derek gets whenever he mentions his family, however brief, in the rare moment that Stiles asks and lets Derek hold him close, because there’s no denying it, they both like when this happens.

Derek’s salty breath hot against Stiles’ neck, hand rubbing meaningless patterns against his thighs, while Stiles snuggles close into the embrace, hand tight against Derek, pulling him close. Stiles is a very tactile person, that’s all it is.

But still, that look makes him shiver in recognition.  

He feels like he owes Boyd something; he wants to do something to ease away that look. That look that Stiles never lets himself have on his face.

 “Scott,” he whispers during study hall, because when it’s Harris? Silence is best. The guy is Snape reincarnated, Stiles swears. Has the greasy hair for it.

Scott gives him a look like he thinks Stiles has a death wish, which, he uses lethal weapons most of the time, hunts mythical creatures for a living, and fucks one on a near daily basis, so there’s that to ponder on.

“What happened to Boyd?” Stiles mouths. Scott immediately tenses up, even pales a little, and Stiles is intrigued. Screw study hall, he’s downright curious about a teenager his age. This rarely happens, since Scott’s moved on with Isaac, and no longer needs him as a wingman, especially seeing as he’s totally dating Stiles’ older sister. And yet still oblivious to the friction between him and Isaac. Stiles is endlessly confused.

He scrawls on a piece of paper and passes it to Stiles, all 007 and everything.

In Scott’s chicken scratch, however, it just reads,  _I’ll tell you at lunch._

Great. Only three more hours. Looks like he’s going to have to do some research to distract him, because one? The homework is laughably easy (Stiles is not complaining), and two, he is like a dog with a bone when it comes to new information; he just needs to know.

So he’s basically bouncing in his seat when Scott deigns to join him at lunch, which, awkward. Stiles had to sit with Isaac in near silence for ten minutes. That meant uneasy glances over the lunch-table, while Stiles picked at the baloney sandwich in his lunch. The Argents may be good at Hunting, but cooking is not Mrs Argent’s forte. Torturing, strategising and being terrifying in general, are. His father, however, is a decent enough cook.

Isaac’s wary around Stiles, maybe a little intimidated, for all Stiles knows. He’s unsure about Stiles, though, and he seems to almost flourish before Stiles’ eyes when Scott appears with their lunch-bags. Stiles maybe resents Isaac, a little, because he’s a best friend stealer (it’s okay if he only thinks it) and does frown at him across the table. Especially when he laughs at Scott’s jokes.

“Boyd?” Stiles asks, impatiently. Which, he was fine with waiting for a few more minutes while Scott chewed his orange, but no. Scott’s fine with talking with his mouth open, orange gush basically dripping out. Stiles pities Allison, really, he does.

“He was dating this girl,” Scott begins, and chooses that moment to swallow the orange. Stiles can feel the look of pure disdain creep on his face.

“Erica,” Isaac supplies. Stiles is warming to Isaac, perhaps, and the polite way he munches an apple.  “And you know a couple of years ago, that mountain lion came into town and people started to get hurt.”

Stiles knows the mountain lion line. He’s heard it countless times, used it countless times. The mountain lions of the area were probably innocent little furballs. It was the Alpha. Had to be.

“And the Sheriff- uh, I mean the police, totally the police-” Scott stutters.

Stiles ignores the sharp stab in his chest at the stuttered mention of the new sheriff. Apparently he’s an asshole, which is not news to Stiles. He got caught speeding one night on the way back from Derek’s, and had to deal with an armful of distressed, miserable deputy when he realised who Stiles is. Was. He always remembers his dad’s deputies being loyal to his dad, and being awesome. Nothing’s changed, apparently. Stiles didn't get a ticket, instead got an invitation to come round for a family dinner and several BBQs.

“Enforced a curfew,” Scott continues, flushed red. “But some kids ignored it. Like Boyd and Erica. He took her on a date, and their car broke down on the side of the road. They were attacked by the mountain lion, and it killed Erica. Boyd threatened it with a branch on fire- he smokes- and it backed off, but Erica was basically in shreds on the asphalt. That’s the story of Boyd.”

If she was ripped to shreds, Stiles thinks, it's likely that the Alpha intended to Change her, but the blood lust proved to be too much. 

“Not entirely,” Isaac frowns. Stiles’ eyes snap to his face. “Boyd said it wasn’t a mountain lion at all, but a wolf; like a really big one, and no one believed him. Basically, everyone ignored him and he was, like, ostracised from the school community. Now he doesn’t talk to anyone, practically, and sits on his own all the time.”

Stiles feels a hot rush of guilt.

Maybe- if he hadn’t forced back the date that the Argents were supposed to come back to Beacon Hills for so long- the Alpha wouldn’t have been alive to do that to Erica.

“Have there been accidents like that- y’know, since?”

“Not really,” Scott wrinkles his nose. “After those accidents, things tailed off.”

_Ironic choice of words there, Scott,_ Stiles thinks to himself.

 

After school, he rushes to the Hale house, as usual.

Derek effectively pins him to the door, which is also as per normal.

Stiles kisses up his neck, hands tugging Derek’s undershirt out of his pants, while his hands squeeze the globes of Stiles’ ass like the sex crazed beast he turns into every Monday. Derek pants and honest to God,  _growls_  in his ear. Stiles swears that whenever in the future he meets an angry werewolf, he’s going to get unfortunately aroused.

But this time, Stiles has something to say that isn’t  _shit, Derek, like that_ and  _oh Jesus_ and  _holy God._ There’s something about Derek that makes Stiles vaguely heretical, it has to be said. Stiles blames the perfect hair, biteable lips and sizable bulge in his jeans, plus the dirty,  _dirty_ smirk he gets during sex.

“Derek, wait, wait,” Stiles gasps out, and whines when Derek actually bites at the hollow at the base of his throat. Seriously? Who  _does_ that?

“Is it opposites day,” Derek mumbles, swiping his tongue over the stinging bite. Stiles’ body kind of arches towards that tongue. That soft, hotter than hell, filthy  _filthy_ tongue. Ahem.

“We need to talk about the Alpha,” Stiles says, and it’s a non-sequiter, to say the least. Derek jerks back, and his hands fall away from Stiles’ ass in an instant. He removes his face from the crook of Stiles’ neck, but doesn’t move back- there’s still only a few centimetres of space between them.

The way Derek’s gaze is flitting to his lips, though, is ultimately distracting and irritating and kind of hot, like he wants to memorise the way Stiles’ lips look when they’re bitten red by  _him…_

Stiles’ gaze falls towards Derek’s lips in response, that perfect, shining curve; it’s so shiny, the lower lip, it’s basically begging Stiles to suck on it. Shit.

Derek’s eyes are half-lidded, and he’s still panting minutely. Stiles makes his eyes travel up to Derek’s telepathic eyebrows; those bad boys are weapons of destruction.

“He killed that girl, a couple of years ago,” Stiles says, voice octaves lower than it usually is. He has to clear his throat a couple of times. “After that string of deaths. I know you’re not a member of the Alpha’s pack, I believe you, but why didn’t you  _do_  anything?”

Derek pauses, not like he’s trying to think or make up an answer, but like he’s forcing down internal boundaries. They don’t trust each other, not really, but they do in the ways that count. Like letting each other into their bodies, that's fine, mindblowing sex is still sex, but try actual talking? That's where the difficulties arise. 

“He wanted me to join,” Derek explains. “But I refused to. I made it clear that I would step back, that I would leave him to his business and wouldn’t stand in his way. If he didn’t kill anyone innocent and didn’t try to expand his pack.”

Which explains why the Alpha didn't attack the first day, when they saw his shadow; he just smelled Derek and a thrumming heartbeat, assumed it was prey. So he let Derek get on with it. 

“But Erica…”Stiles begins, unsure if he knows who he’s looking at.

“That was before I arrived,” Derek says darkly. His eyes meet Stiles, dark and serious.  “I have no way of getting back at him, Stiles, for Laura, for Erica,” Derek says. “I don’t know who he is, where he resides. For all I know, it’s not a he. She, or he, covered their scent, their tracks when they met me; they weren’t familiar to me. Besides, after the first few months after I returned, he hasn’t killed since. He’s fallen off the map.”

Stiles wants to judge Derek, he does, but then he thinks it over in his head.

Derek had just lost Laura. He was a Beta without a pack, for the very first time, entirely alone. Stiles isn’t sure that he wouldn’t have acted any differently, if he had nothing else to lose. It’s smarter to be cowardly, than to just be the stupid, unthinking hero. After all, isn’t that why he stayed away from Beacon Hills in the first place? Instead of staying, he ran, because he knew he would be too scared to stay.

“We’ll find him,” Stiles swears.

Stiles goes home after that, because he can tell he’s upset Derek. He kisses Derek on the forehead and drives away, leaving him alone on the front porch of the Hale house, bathed in the fading spring light.

II

Sometimes Derek is crippled by self-loathing.

Stiles doesn’t understand why.

But he tries to make it better, to make Derek realise that he’s worth more than just being bent over backwards in a bathroom stall. That even though Stiles can’t say the words out loud, he means them, even though he’s not even sure in himself.

He likes to prove himself to Derek.

II

After that ordeal, they start coming up with ideas on who the Alpha could be.

Stiles spends hours, on separate days, writing up scrambled notes on Alpha attributes, pooling his and Derek’s knowledge. They fool around now  _after_ they think of possible candidates. Stiles was set on it being Peter, but according to Derek and the death certificate he hands Stiles, Peter died two years ago, before the problems even started.

It’s a poor list, as it goes.

The deaths are all linked to the Hale fire- anyone with a brain could see that- but the only person left standing after the Hale fire is Derek, and Stiles knows it's not him. So that leaves them at square one. It's not like Stiles can go to the police station and ask- since his dad's death, okay, most of the deputies still remember and cherish him, but he's not the Sheriff's kid (thank God for that, because the current Sheriff is an asshole) and he doesn't have the same kind of liberties a Sheriff's kid has. He doesn't like to think about it. 

Stiles doesn’t tell his father about anything, and doesn’t regret it. He tells Derek this.

He knows Derek doesn’t trust him, can’t, really, and that makes him both sad and angry.

So he proves himself.

He helps his father on false leads; steers him away from the Hale house, from anything to do with Derek, and keeps on lying.

He brings his translated bestiary to the house, lets Derek read it. He doesn't want to think about what he's done. 

The problem is he doesn’t feel bad about any of it.

II

One day after school, Stiles doesn’t go to Derek’s. In fact, he cuts school altogether.

He turns off his phone and dumps it in his school bag.

He drives to the school gate and stares for a while at the passive faces of the students, the lucky ones who weren’t orphaned at age eight, the ones blissfully unaware of the supernatural.

He envies them.

II

He parks in the graveyard. It’s not strictly regulation, but Stiles doubts that they’ll care. Any attendants that see him will startle, probably; it’s the reaction he faces from most adults. It’s because he looks like his mother, so alike that when he looks in the mirror he  _shudders._ He blames the Beacon Hills lighting, atmosphere, whatever, but he  _swears_  he’s never seen his mother in his reflection before. But he’s always talked like his dad, moves like him too, so there’s that equally painful reminder.

He sits down by the grave, and he thinks that they would have liked it.

The gravesite oversees the town, traffic lights winking at him from downtown, and surrounded by pine forest. The grave itself sits underneath a crab apple tree, and Stiles knows that his dad would have liked being buried with his mom. Even though he rubs his thumb angrily over the newer looking engraving of his dad’s name, the dark marble under his fingertips cool to the touch.

“Happy death day,” Stiles says to his mom, voice morose. Then he sniggers at his accidental pun, and feels instantly bad. It’s how he deals with sadness, misery; he makes himself laugh. If everyone is laughing with him, he doesn’t feel so alone, stupid as it seems.

“I miss you.” He says to his trainers. “It’s just hard- without you both- _they’re_  not you. I keep trying and trying to make them fit that picture, but they just  _don’t_. And I feel like I’m betraying you both. I would have you back in a heartbeat.” 

He pulls up handfuls of grass, until his hands are grass-stained and bloody.

"I wanted to make you proud- dad, I wanted to get them back for doing this, but I don't  _know_  anymore. I don't know what I'm doing and I know you wouldn't like this, neither of you liked violence. Especially if it's unnecessary. I do this for  _you_. I just don't understand."

Stiles talks at them all day, until the sky grows so dark it’s difficult to see the names.

His legs prickle with unused nerves, and he shivers. He remembers the pathetic explanatory text he’d sent to Derek, and remembers it’s a Friday. He won’t see Derek until Monday, now. Stiles feels an abrupt rush of regret that only fades when he strolls back to Delilah.

Derek’s leaning against the shiny paint job, looking like something from _Autoshop Monthly_. Stiles’ mouth goes dry. He feels a rush of  _want_ , and other things he doesn’t really want to think about; like how soft Derek’s Henley looks, how tight he would hold Stiles, if he asked. He shakes the thoughts away, passing them off as idle insanity. They are fuck buddies, nothing more. He needs to get it into his head.

“What are you doing here?” He asks, voice scraped raw from talking.

Derek clenches his jaw and looks at his feet. Shy suits Derek. Colour rises to the top of his cheekbones, his surprisingly small ears and he stuffs his hands in his jeans pockets.

“I thought you’d want someone with you,” Derek says uncomfortably, gritting his teeth so hard it has to hurt.

“So you were listening to me talk?” Stiles asks, but he can’t muster any anger.

“I could probably hear you talk from across town,” Derek frowns, and that’s not creepy, at all. Stiles files that in his head as  _Things that need to be discussed at a later date in great detail that will make Derek uncomfortable._

“That must suck,” Stiles says shortly. He wipes a smear of blood from his wrist.

“Today it did,” Derek says honestly, and walks towards Stiles gently, slowly, like he’s prey that will scare easy. He puts his hands tight on Stiles’ hips, and pulls him close until they’re nose to nose. Derek nuzzles a little, and Stiles lets himself _breathe_.

 

Stiles is acutely aware of Derek on the back of Delilah, hands tight against Stiles’ jacket. He looks terrified whenever Stiles glances back.

Derek growls at him  _to keep his eyes on the damn road._

Stiles snorts with laughter, made soundless by the roaring wind and engine under his cracked helmet (which Derek had refused to take, in spite of his blatant terror), because Derek is a werewolf, and he’s afraid of  _motorcycles._  It’s just so incongruous.

For the first time, he hates to leave Derek at the Hale house alone. He looks so isolated that Stiles physically aches, but like usual, he just leaves without a cursory glance.

But his stomach twists.

He doesn’t say anything to the Argents when he gets in, just knocks on Christopher and Victoria’s door to let them know that he got home, mostly in one piece.

Today is the day that he can’t call them father and mother.

Today, and the anniversary of the fire.

It still stings like betrayal if he does.  

II

They don’t talk about it again.

It’s not something to talk about, and if Derek holds Stiles for a little while longer after sex for the next few weeks, no one’s criticising them.

II

The full moon for the Hunters is sort of like Christmas, for Santa. All the work in the past month, the strategising, the Training, goes towards this. This month is no different. Stiles has been working on his running, this time, because his stamina could always be improved.

They tell the typical lie to Allison- there’s a business deal going down, over dinner, and they’re going to be out celebrating their eventual success (it’s not technically a lie- they do have a meeting next month) because they would succeed- they’re the Argent Armoury.

Stiles suits up, for Allison’s sake, and he thinks of Iron Man while doing it, which makes him laugh. They take photos together, selfies, in which Stiles looks dashing and Allison’s pyjamas make her look a little homeless. It’s role reversal.

He has to change back into typical Hunting clothes afterwards in the back of the Chevy- he puts on the black clothing, so he melds into the night, which is made out of thin, pounded leather, which allows for flexibility and provides a slight armour around his body. This material reaches up to his neck, because that’s where werewolves like to bite their prey, and Stiles has heard many a tale of Hunters getting their heads ripped off by a feisty werewolf or two. They’re not strictly uniform, but running shoes- he tends to be clumsy in anything else, so they’re a must. Aside from the gun holster at his hip, across his back and the knife strapped to his thigh, he looks relatively non-lethal.

They set up the woods into subsections by degree of experience- the better Hunters work in pairs, or alone, like Stiles does, while the younger ones tend to herd together, in groups of three or four. Chris is with Victoria, as usual, which makes Stiles wish that he had back up, of sorts.

He sets up traps around the forest, and his men know the exact placement- one every seven miles. They’re virtually undetectable- Stiles has been keeping parts in the Hale house, so they smell of nature, has had Derek look after them, because they both want Stiles to catch the Alpha. They are mechanically wired, so every time one’s set off, Stiles will know about it. The wire is millimetre’s thin, and razor sharp, infused with Wolfsbane that Stiles spent  _hours_ painstakingly rubbing along the wire’s edge.

That’s not even the best part.

Whenever one of these bad boys is set off, Stiles gets a screenshot of the captured person, just before the arrow is released. Like the most deadly awesome booby trap ever. He’s never caught a human, typically because they’re so deep into the woods right now that  _no one_ sane would ever come out this far.

Stiles comforts himself with the knowledge that Derek will be staying indoors, at his condo (Stiles has yet to learn the address and details of the place, just because he hasn’t really asked, although he’s wanted to, because again with the dirt at the Hale house) safely human. He doesn’t have to worry about Derek, distract himself with thoughts of him. He is  _safe._

So he’s tramping alone through the woods, without a care in the world, hands itching to whip out a weapon, when he feels it.

 He feels that prickle of heat, that familiar one that he always feels just before he walks into his house; he’s being watched. While Derek watches him with the ferocity of a hawk during sex, to gauge his reactions, or maybe just because he enjoys the weird faces Stiles makes (he’s flushing even thinking about him, dammit) he doesn’t stalk Stiles home.

 Mostly because Stiles lives with Hunters, he has a perimeter, okay, and while it’s nice to imagine sometimes a world where Derek would be able to climb into his window, that’s never going to happen. He doesn’t come near the Argent house. He doesn’t have a death wish. Stiles likes him alive. It’s a thing of his.

So he’s being watched by someone else.

Which makes him feel  _so_  freaked out. 

He tenses, and the abrupt rustle of underbrush has Stiles running in that direction, because even a glimpse of Alpha- he can see what type of person they would be- your shape reflects the person you are, Stiles remembers that. He remembers meeting an Alpha back in Illinois that was a twisted, malformed wolf, and he turned out to be the sort that would kill a victim, then fuck them afterwards, so Stiles puts stock in this theory.

He thinks he hears the quiet bleep of his phone, but he dismisses it, when he can see the vague shadow of a _thing_  up ahead, huge, dark and menacing even from behind. It disappears, scatters away from Stiles, and he throws a dagger; it lands in a tree seven feet ahead, making Stiles swear viciously.

He collects the dagger, and tries to see any imprints the Alpha’s made in the ground; a large paw print, nails twisted so deep in the mud, Stiles can tell that they really ran away from him. He takes a photo and collects a sample of the mud in a small plastic container, just in case Derek can get a scent from it. It’s a possibility. A vague, vague possibility.

Then his phone bleeps again, signalling that an arrow has been released.

He gets out his phone, and checks- the trap nearest him, only a minute or so out- that’s caught him a fish. He gets his hopes up, stupidly, and sprints towards the glowing dot on his phone. He does almost slam into a tree, but even that can’t bring down his sudden good mood.

That disappears when he notes the person hanging upside down from the trap, arrow buried in his shoulder.

Derek.

_His_ Derek.

Asshole.

“ _Derek_ ,” he says, startled, and goes immediately to his side. “What are you doing here?”

Derek gives him his best  _bitch please_ stare. The one that makes Stiles feel like an amoeba. He never gets this look in bed, just saying.

He’s suspended upside down, and Stiles has to remind himself that this is not the time to start thinking of  _Spiderman_ style kisses. He used to be a good Hunter.

Derek tries to cut himself free, but the arrow severely restricts his movements. Stiles is pleased that his plan worked, slightly less pleased that it worked on his…whatever Derek is to him.

He has to cut Derek free; he throws the knife and hopes for the best.

It cuts through the wire with a soft  _snick_ and abruptly Derek is crumpled on the ground, groaning out Stiles’ name in complaint.

Stiles shushes him, because he doesn’t know how far back his father and his men are, and that means they have to go.

“Thanks for that. And I was just checking up on you,” Derek frowns, like Stiles is the one who’s being unreasonable and vaguely stalkerish. He’s shockingly pale and the stark bright red of his blood makes Stiles feel faintly nauseated.

“I can take care of myself,” Stiles says firmly, but lifts Derek all the same. He wasn’t actually going to let him die in the woods. He even lets Derek sling an arm around Stiles’ shoulder and then half-drags Derek out of the clearing, to their car park. He looks around for signs of the Hunters, then slides Derek in the front seat of his borrowed car.

He starts the engine and drives slowly until he gets far enough away, then he drives like he likes to.

First, he calls Allison.

“Yeah?” She says sleepily.

“Allison, can you tell dad if he asks that you were feeling ill?” Stiles has to have a reason why he left, and Allison is that reason. “You needed me to come home, make you some food?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be at that deal?” Allison yawns. He can tell she’s already leaning back to rest her head on her pillow. He has ten seconds to keep her awake.

“Yeah, but something came up,” Stiles says, using Derek’s vague gesturing to mean that they need to turn left, into the more expensive part of downtown Beacon Hills. Scott lives in the other direction, he remembers.

“Stiles, I’ll cover for you if you tell me what that something is.” Allison mumbles, and Stiles hesitates.  _Oh sis, I’ve just got a werewolf boyfriend, nothing big._

“I’m seeing a guy. A boyfriend shaped guy,” Stiles mutters, certain he’s going to regret it later.

“I knew it!” Allison cheers, like a crazy woman. “We’ll talk about this more later, but don’t forget to have fun!”

Stiles wants to laugh as he hangs up because he’s certain that  _fun_ probably won’t be on the agenda.

 

Stiles is always right. It’s a thing of his.

Case in point, Derek snaps at him with  _fangs_ , uncomfortably close to Stiles’ face, when he yanks out the arrow as gently as he can. He’s had an arrow in the hand before (thanks Allison), has the scar tissue to prove it, and werewolf or no, the wound can’t heal until the arrow is taken out. So that’s first priority.

Stiles has dragged him up three flights of stairs, the pain unbelievable for both of them, Stiles’ shoulder almost gets tugged out of its socket by Derek’s weight.

Stiles mutters about tetanus when he flicks the lights on in Derek’s apartment. It’s surprisingly cluttered, in a pleasant way, but the apartment itself is all pale walls, high ceilings and wooden flooring. Books litter the walls, ceiling high bookcases everywhere; Stiles doesn’t spend time reading the titles, he’s got Derek suffering in his arms, but he does note that there are a lot of books on Engineering. Interesting. Mostly, it looks like stuff that probably doesn’t belong to Derek because it’s floral and very feminine and pretty. He feels it’s safe to assume that this was once Laura’s stuff.

He doesn’t say anything, aside from, ‘Nice apartment.’ With as much sincerity as he can muster, under the conditions.

He whimpers when Stiles puts his spare, now burnt Wolfsbane (he keeps it in his wallet) in the wound. The wound smokes and flares lilac. Stiles does feel entirely guilty now, though, because it was  _his_  idea to put a smear of liquidised Wolfsbane on the tips of every arrow, so that even if the werewolf in question caught the arrow in the hand, they would be poisoned.

The Stiles method is quite thorough. They use an exploding arrow first of all, which explodes on contact with anything, which stuns the werewolf. Then they catch them with the poisoned arrow. It’s an underhanded move, but it works. Every time.

He writhes for a minute, and Stiles winces, but the wound closes up, smoking.

Stiles breathes out a sigh of relief when Derek stops twitching in weird spasms of pain.

His face is exhausted, weary, but grateful when he looks up at Stiles.

“Are you okay?”

“Aside from the agonising pain,” Derek says, eyebrows raised. Stiles smirks.

“I suppose sarcasm is a good sign of health,” Stiles points out, which does make Derek smile, a little.

It’s an exhausted, hopeful curve, and Stiles likes it a lot, so he kisses Derek, quick and chaste. Derek makes a small sound of want, and chases Stiles’ lips when they move away, but Stiles just nuzzles his nose against Derek’s cheek instead. He gets stubble-burn on the tip of his nose, but Derek’s stubble will always feel scratchy good, no matter where the stubble touches, although it is frustrating when it’s against his butt, and he wants something a little harder, rougher than just his mouth and  _tongue_.

Anyway. Moving on.

“You need to go to bed,” Stiles says firmly. “I’ll stay until you fall asleep, if you want.”

Stiles is pretty sure that it’s in the Code that any injuries received by an innocent werewolf at the hands of a Hunter must be provided with aid. He’s about sixty per cent certain. So he’s just doing his duty, really.

Derek is silent, eyes searching as they look up into Stiles’ face. He probably looks horrible, he abruptly realises, soaked in Derek’s blood, covered in errant Wolfsbane ash. Derek frowns a little but nods shortly. “I’d like that.”

Stiles feels a rush of exhilaration that he shoves down, because he’s being ridiculous. He doesn’t even know why he’s getting excited. The prospect of cuddling up with Derek Hale in his sheets isn’t that inviting. Not while he’s covered in peeling blood, at least.

That’s until he gets into Derek’s bed, and Derek pulls him into his arms. Holds him tight against him, so Stiles can feel the inexorable heat of him pressed against his back. His hands search under Stiles’ shirt, stroking gently at the skin he finds. Stiles just falls into his touch, secretly enjoying the feel of Derek because he’d worried, when he saw Derek this evening. Thought his nightmares had come true and his father had found out about Derek. Instead of him just getting ensnared in one of Stiles’ special traps. Idiot.

“You scared me,” Stiles mumbles, letting his hand caress. He’s reeling from his sudden desire to be close with Derek, to tell him what he’s thinking, and have Derek pressed close like this.

“That’s because you worry about people you care about. Like I did with you in the first place.” Stiles starts at Derek’s tone, mostly; it’s matter of fact, like this is common knowledge, which it is not.

“That’s not it,” Stiles struggles.  _I don’t care about you that much._ It’s what he wants to say, it’s on the tip of his tongue, but he doesn’t say it. Something about the stark vulnerability on Derek’s face scares him so much and yet he likes that, secretly, that Derek is letting him see some part of himself that no one has seen in so long-

“You do want that,” Derek mumbles against his skin, and Stiles, if he weren’t so damnably confused and scared, would agree that he wants whatever Derek wants. He doesn’t understand what’s going on. The slow press of Derek’s fingers against that spot in the crease of his knee is making his brain fuzzy.  

 “What do I want, then?” His words sound like a purr.

“You want to be loved,” Derek says simply, and his eyes drop to Stiles’ lips. “You want someone to worry about you the way you worry about them-”

It’s like a bucket of iced water to the face.

“Oh, you know what, fuck you,” Stiles snaps, and tries to back away. Derek grabs his hips, however, hands tight, fingers digging into the definition just above the line of his plaid boxers.

“Wasn’t that what we were trying to do?” Derek asks, frowning. Stiles can’t help but laugh, a snort breaks free and he looks up at the ceiling, debating everything, questioning it.

“Yeah,” Stiles admits, running a hand over his face. His hand drops and cards through Derek’s soft, silky hair without his permission. Derek looks a little wonderstruck, but arches into the touch like a demented cat. His eyes are slit shut, a sliver of green grey shining through.

“Stay?” Derek asks, and his voice is vulnerable, questioning, and Stiles debates it. He honestly does. He imagines falling asleep next to Derek and waking up next to him, waking up slotted together, seeing Derek’s hair rumpled, face flushed and rosy with sleep, and he knows it’s a bad idea. Because seeing something like that would swiftly become addicting, and Stiles isn’t sure that he would be able to get up and go from Derek, to have that just that one time; he knows that he’ll want it for the rest of his life if he allows himself it, just this once. And by it, he means Derek.

Stiles is shaking his head before he even realises it, and it’s not because the thought terrifies him, although it does, a little. It’s because it doesn’t scare him as much as it should, this  _want_ he has for normalcy with Derek. That scares him more than anything. His mouth is set into a grim line.

“I can’t,” he says softly, and those are two words he’s becoming more and more familiar with, nowadays. Derek’s face hardens, just a little, and he nods resolutely. And Stiles hates seeing that look on his face, hates knowing that he’s the one who put it there. So he kisses it away.

Kisses Derek until they’re both as weak and breathless and gasping as fish out of water, like they’re both starving for each other.

Then he leaves.

II

Stiles is scared that he crossed some sort of line, after that night, but he gets a text from Derek asking him to meet him at the Hale house like usual the next day, so he thinks it’s all fine.

They don’t talk about what Derek said, and Stiles thinks that maybe, things will be okay again.

He couldn’t have been more wrong.

II

“Come on,” Chris all but yells at him, the day after. Stiles wants to hit him, honestly he does.

He’s on what feels like his six hundredth push up, and his arms are screaming. Yet his father yells at him to be faster, like some werewolf is going to yell at him to do push ups instead of trying to rip his head from his shoulders (a near experience, a couple of times back at the start).

His father is angry at him about something else, Stiles knows this, and he just wants him to yell at him about that instead of taking his anger out on him through exercise. Stiles knows that he was fine about Allison, was glad Stiles took his brotherly duties seriously, and doesn’t know about Derek, so it’s puzzling. What’s more, it’s ridiculous.

The next one he does, however, his hand slips on his own sweat, and he lands on his left wrist. A crunch echoes throughout the room, and he recognises that before he feels waves of pain, making his wrist throb. He sobs, practically, and sits up.

“What are you doing?” Chris snarls.

Stiles is incredulous. Did he not hear the snapping of the bone? He’s about twenty years too early to be going deaf, after all.

“Going to get an X-ray,” Stiles snaps, getting to his feet. He wobbles a little, dizzy from pain.  He stumbles when Chris shoves him.

“I didn’t say you were done,” Chris says, voice deadly serious and entirely dangerous for it.

Is he  _insane_?

“I did,” Stiles says, trying not to be insubordinate and failing. His wrist just kills, okay?

He turns his back on his father. It’s against all his training to turn his back on an enemy while fighting, but this is Christopher. He’s the closest thing Stiles has to a father and he’s never hurt Stiles in his life.

Before now.

Chris grabs him by his shoulder, grip iron tight, and shoves him against the ground. The moment of impact pushes all the air out of him and makes his wrist throb.

“Continue,” Chris snarls.

Stiles scrambles backwards, away from his father, but he stalks towards Stiles. Stiles reacts like a dog cornered; he just kicks out blindly, unaware of his own strength, instinct taking hold. Chris flies backwards and slams into the training mats in their basement, groaning in pain on impact. He doesn’t get up.

Stiles bites back a sob and runs.

 

Only to his room, however, to get his cell phone.

Then he calls Scott.

He debates calling Derek, but doesn’t, because this is too close to the Argent house, and it’s also going beyond the realm of their relationship, Stiles thinks. Whatever that is.

After that, he does get away from his house, but it’s on foot.

Scott picks him up at the edge of suburbia, thoroughly sodden, miserable, and wracked with pain. Isaac’s sitting in the front seat, but Stiles doesn’t hate him, really, when he gives Stiles his seat and a molten ice-pack.

His face is sheepish as he ducks in the back, and Stiles smiles at him slightly.

Before puking out the window.

Looks like Scott’s getting that new paint job he wanted, after all.

II

Stiles learns at the hospital that his wrist isn’t even broken- it’s sprained.

Sprained, his ass. It freaking  _hurts_.

He gets a wrist brace, however, and permission to draw on it all he likes. He’s in the middle of a really cool drawing of a unicorn when he’s told he’s almost allowed to leave by an unfamiliar male nurse.

 Scott and Isaac pace anxiously outside, and Stiles wonders if he was wrong about having no friends.

It seems he has two best friends.

“Bro,” Scott says in relief as he approaches. “You okay?”

“Aside from the agonising pain,” Stiles quotes wryly. “I think so. It’s only a sprain, so I’m not allowed to wield heavy machinery. Aside from that, I’m good I think. Although my dreams of riding a tractor are dashed.”

Isaac smiles quickly, before it’s replaced by a troubled look, and a shiver. “What happened?”

And Stiles suddenly feels awful.

Stiles remembers from his (totally illegal) hacking into the school files that Isaac turned up to school with a black eye and a broken rib at one point. He was asked if he wanted to be sent home, and chose to stay. He feels a sudden rush of something close to pity, but it’s not that, at all; Stiles feels bad, for disliking Isaac, for ignoring him, for secretly resenting him. He dislikes himself for feeling all those things.

“I was working out and I slipped on some sweat,” Stiles answers truthfully. He feels whatever energy he had drain out of him and he slumps against a chair.

“That sucks,” Scott says, although Isaac frowns a little, uncertain. “I’m sorry, man, but I kinda rang someone on your phone and told them to come and pick you up. We’ve got shifts in like ten minutes, so.”

Stiles frowns as Scott gives him back his phone, but it’s his second phone, not his first. If it was his first phone, then Scott would have rang Allison. But on the second, the one his parents know nothing about, the phone number most frequently contacted is…Derek. He prays that Scott hasn’t looked at their bantering, sometimes sexually implicit texts. By the size of his doofus grin, he has. Great.

“Do you want us to wait with you?” Isaac asks, even though Stiles can see him checking his watch out of the corner of his eye.

“Nah,” Stiles says, then sits back in his chair. “I can wait alone.”

“We’ll talk at school,” Scott says, and Stiles feels a pat on either shoulder, before the two of them leave.

His head falls back against the wall. 

II

Somewhere along the line, he naps.

He can’t usually fall asleep in a public space, so this is a testament to how much pain he’s in.

He wakes to a careful hand running along his jaw, a gentle touch.

“D’rek?” He mumbles sleepily, a little hopefully. He gets a snort in response.

He opens his eyes slowly, and notes the amused almost-smile Derek wears, the familiar distressed leather jacket, a comfy looking Henley, an indiscriminate pair of black jeans and sneakers. The only sign that it’s almost night-time is that his hair is a little more tousled than usual, like he’s woken up from being asleep. Derek is in the chair next to his, and Stiles shakes his head, as if that will help clear it up. The feel of his aching neck makes him wince.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” Derek says, smirk clear in his voice. “C’mon. I’ll drive you home.”

“No, I need to fill in Insurance stuff,” Stiles protests weakly as Derek hauls him up, so very gently.

Derek snorts out an almost laugh again. “They just needed your social security number.”

“How do you know my social security number?” Stiles slurs out, still not really awake.

“I took your wallet,” Derek finally answers. By now, he’s helped Stiles into the front seat of the Camaro. Stiles can blame the pain and exhaustion for the clingy way his hands grip at the front of Derek’s jacket. He ignores Derek’s pleased, almost smug smirk. Bastard.

He doesn’t let Derek drive directly to the Argent house, not that he really offers to. He just stops him at the edge of Suburbia. Derek doesn’t kiss him goodnight, but places his hand on the curve of Stiles’ cheek, thumb brushing the skin almost reverently.

Stiles stumbles to the Argent house, exhaustion making everything a little fuzzy around the edges.

He’s embraced hard by Allison, followed by his mother, the second he steps in the door.

He explains that he slipped while working out, because apparently Christopher has told them nothing.

He stands on the other side of the foyer, a clearly superficial smile on his face as he watches his wife and daughter ask Stiles whether he’s okay, whether he wants something to eat, did he meet any attractive nurses.

Still, his eyes are unforgiving as a snake’s, and Stiles knows that what he’s done- not that he’s even sure what that is- will not be forgotten or forgiven.

II

The brace doesn’t actually make that much difference to his daily life.

Scott draws a Pegasus on the brace, after questioning Stiles about Derek for what felt like four hours. He and Isaac are sworn to secrecy and Stiles tells them that they’re fucking. Scott looks dubious, and rolls his eyes at Stiles. Damn the romantic in Scott.

Isaac draws a puppy. Because he is a total puppy, Stiles realises this now.

Derek draws a dick. He likes dick. You are what you eat.

All in all, Stiles can’t say he’s surprised.

II

The next full moon is even worse.

He’s alone again, but in an unfamiliar stretch of woods that isn’t even Hale land. There’s no one for miles around, and Stiles is armed to the teeth, but he still doesn’t feel safe.

This feeling is worsened by the rustling that he hears, just past midnight.  He refuses to be someone at the start of Supernatural. Refuses to. So he does the intelligent thing and pulls out his gun and a flashlight, and turns in slow, accusatory circles.

He almost shoots them when he sees them.

Isaac staggers into view, a few feet ahead of him in a clearing.

“Isaac!” Stiles yells, furious, before even thinking to hide the gun.

It doesn’t matter, really; Isaac is stark white, comic book shirt- one of Scott’s- stuck to him with blood. He has Scott on his back, but Isaac’s the one who’s holding him there, because he’s out for the count.

As Stiles sprints towards Isaac, he collapses, face first in the dirt.

He’s almost dizzy when he checks both boys over and notes the bite marks in their clothes, the teeth marks in their flesh that are swiftly healing.

He doesn’t even consider hurting them.

The only thing that runs through his mind is that he needs to get them to Derek.

However, this means trekking back through miles of forest and underbrush, carrying two fully grown teenagers. He’s going to break his ankles.

He yanks Scott to his feet, and he’s dead to the world. Stiles considers just piling them on top of each other and walking, but for all his convictions that Scott and Isaac are doing each other, he doesn’t think that that would be too pleasant. Plus, his arms would kill. 

So instead, Stiles decides to have Scott on his back, in a piggy back with Isaac in his arms, because Isaac’s taller than he is, and he figures that Scott is more likely to wake up first.

 Stiles puts Scott on his back, holds Scott’s arm around his throat. He’s kind of being choked, but he can’t imagine that he’ll pass out any time soon, so he holds Scott there.

Lifting Isaac with one hand proves to be more difficult.

Luckily enough, Isaac (unlike Scott) weighs next to nothing. Stiles is pleasantly surprised.

His muscles burn with every step they take, and he’s swiftly drenched in sweat.

They just need to get to the car.

II

Stiles staggers to the car, finally, after what’s felt like trekking through the Red Waste.

Isaac gets dumped in the backseat, Scott in the front. He has to buckle them in.

He calls Derek, vaguely out of it, and tries to explain. He ends up hanging up on Derek, because he demands to know where Stiles, Scott and Isaac are, and Stiles isn’t going to let him come out into the woods. He has more brains than that; there are a dozen Hunters armed to the teeth out here. 

He speeds to Derek’s apartment and rues the day he ever came back to Beacon Hills when he has to drag them up the three flights of stairs.

Stiles’ chest is heaving with exertion, and his muscles are exhausted. He’s covered in blood that doesn’t belong to him and dirt. He makes quite the sight for Derek, when he opens the door.  

“ _Stiles,”_ Derek says, hair mussed from sleep, cheeks flushed. Stiles’ heart hurts to look at him. He reaches for Stiles as he stalks past, dropping Isaac on the couch, Scott next to him. He slumps against the couch, or tries to, but Derek gathers him in his hands, hands roaming over his skin, checking.

“Derek, Derek, I’m fine, it’s not me-” Stiles protests, hands settling on Derek’s hips out of their own volition. Derek buries his face in Stiles’ neck and shudders, and Stiles wonders what he thought had happened when Stiles rang earlier. “It’s Scott and Isaac.”

Derek still doesn’t let up until Stiles makes a hushing sound, like he would for an injured animal, and hugs Derek, in spite of the blood soaking his shirt. Derek pulls away and kneels by the pair of them, and takes a good long sniff. Smelling whether the bite will take, Stiles thinks.

“They’re going to be fine,” Derek says, nodding slowly. His eyes drift up to Stiles, and his irises are so large Stiles worries for a moment, because Derek looks terrified.

“I’m okay,” Stiles says, reassuring, and Derek just swallows and nods. “But I’ve got to get back, otherwise they’re going to get suspicious. I’ll be here tomorrow morning, I promise.”

Derek shakes his head with irritation and stalks to Stiles. He stares at Stiles for a moment before cradling his face in his hands and kissing him swiftly, tongue sweeping dirty rounds in Stiles’ mouth. His body is pressed, reassuringly warm and hot against Stiles’, steady and reliable, though his heartbeat feels tremulous against the palms of Stiles’ hands, which are pressed against his chest. Which makes him feel a little dizzy, actually.

Stiles shivers in Derek’s hands. He stares into Derek’s eyes, and hesitates. It’s not like they would miss his presence- the area of wood he’d been assigned to was thick and dense, the backwoods, a sign that Chris is annoyed with him, he knows. And besides, Scott and Isaac would listen to him. More so than they would with Derek, maybe. For now, at least, because he’s a familiar face.

So he stays.

He changes into some of Derek’s clothes, has to deal with watching Derek’s hungry gaze envelop him while he’s partially naked. That results in him making out with Derek in his dark room until Derek hears the pair in the living room start to awaken.

Stiles tries to flatten down the mess he has turned into- thanks, Derek- but the flush in his cheeks, his swollen lips, the rumbled clothes are difficult to hide. Derek’s hair is a scarecrow’s nest, his delectable lips flushed, and stands unashamedly. Stiles scoffs at himself. Like they’re even going to notice. They’ve got more important things to worry about.

Scott jerks awake, eyes burning amber, hands clawing at the leather couch. Derek growls at him. Stiles wonders if it’s because he loves the couch. Scott backs down almost instantly, and Derek looks surprised. Like he didn’t think it would be that easy. Isaac’s the same when he wakes up, and Stiles breathes a sigh of relief. If they’re bound to Derek, like three awkward besties, rather than rogue, isolated, then Stiles won’t have to kill them, come the next full moon. Not that he thinks he could.

“Good morning, Vietnam,” Stiles says. “You guys okay?”

They both give him similar looks of incomprehension. Derek raises an eyebrow.

“Okay, stupid question.” Stiles admits, crossing his arms. “Do you know what happened?”

“We were following you,” Scott admits, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “I knew something was off, okay?”

“And we were tackled by this _thing_. It bit us and ran off.” Isaac finishes, rubbing his bite-spot- just under his kidney. “I passed out. I’m not a fan of blood, if I’m honest.”

“And I passed out before that, there was a  _lot_  of blood, okay and it really hurt.” Scott says, frowning. “How did we get here?”

“I carried you both,” Stiles clarified. “By the way, Scott, go on a diet.” Scott huffs a little.

Derek rolls his eyes. “You weren’t bitten by a normal wolf.” Scott and Isaac swap horrified looks.

“You were bitten by a werewolf,” Stiles finishes. “Ta-dah?”

Derek cuffs him on the back of the head.

“So, I’m going to turn feral and kill people once a month?” Isaac asks, face ashen white. Scott nods dumbly.

“Not if you learn to control your instincts. Which means no lacrosse, not anymore, because you’ll be seen. It’s a contact sport,” Stiles says. “Which is where Derek comes in. He’ll help you control your new impulses, because he’s one too. But me? If you don’t control yourselves, I’m the one who’ll have to put you down.”  _Accidental dog pun, there, nice one Stiles,_  he thinks to himself. “I’m a werewolf hunter. Like the movie  _Van Helsing_ , but cooler.”

Scott nods. “I knew you turned into Steve Rogers for a reason.”

Derek laughs, a huff of breath, and Stiles looks at him. He got the Avengers ref? He grins when Derek shrugs at him. He files it in his head as  _Things to be discussed at a later date with Derek._

Scott begins to question Derek on how to keep his temper cool when Stiles’ phone goes off. He ducks out of the room before he answers.                

“Hello?”

“Stiles, thank God,” Allison gasps down the line. She sounds like she’s on the brink of tears, like she’s just stopped crying, or is about to start. She releases a choked sob, so Stiles guesses the latter. “Dad just called me- mom’s in the hospital, where are you?”

“I’m with Scott,” Stiles says. It’s not technically a lie. “I’m leaving now, okay? I’ll be with you soon.”

Allison hangs up.

Stiles’ heart is in his throat. He presses a quick kiss to Derek’s lips, numbly, on autopilot, and promises to be back later.

He doesn’t even remember getting back in his car, but apparently he does, because the next thing he knows, he’s at the hospital. He’s in an elevator, going towards the Intensive Care Unit.

It’s all going by so horribly fast, like a car crash.

He feels numb, and it shouldn’t, but it’s bringing up all those memories- going by the hospital to say goodbye one last time to his mom, who had been getting better, had seemed to have the light back in her eyes that day, but died anyway. Remembers travelling to the hospital in the back of a cop car, uncertain whether his dad was dead or not. The sick part of it all, those moments sting more than this one does.

He stumbles from the elevator and takes in the sight of his father and Allison. Allison is crying into her dad’s throat, sobbing, clutching at her dad’s jacket. Stiles can hear her begging,  _what happened? What happened?_

Stiles would like to know what the hell went wrong, too.

II

Victoria Argent was bitten by the Alpha, maybe a little after Scott and Isaac were, while she was making the rounds with Stiles’ father. She’d survived the bite, of course, but killed herself immediately when she realised what had happened.

Chris had had to help, because the full moon was already working its poison within her, turning her eyes golden. All this is whispered angrily to Stiles.

Chris is furious that Stiles disappeared. Stiles makes up some excuse about Scott getting mugged, and needing him, but his voice sounds false to his own ears.

He envelops Allison in a hug, lets her dampen his shirt with her tears before she yells at them both for not being at home- she doesn’t understand what the  _hell_  is going on. Stiles wishes that he didn’t know. 

They go back home a little after three a.m. Stiles makes funeral plans, and boy, is that a blast from the past.  It still leaves him sitting alone downstairs for most of the next day, the occasional bleep of his cell-phone to keep him company.

Chris has told Stiles that he doesn’t want to see his face for a while, as soon as they get home, and shoves Stiles away. Chris blames Stiles for his wife’s death; says it’s his fault, he should have been there for them and should have been a Hunter. He ends up alone downstairs and with Chris comforting a devastated Allison.

He feels weak. The silence of the house rings in his ears, so loud he almost doesn’t hear the doorbell.

He hauls himself off the couch and to the front door, body aching. His stomach drops even before he opens the door to see Kate standing in the doorway, giant-ass duffel bag in hand, smirk in place. He shudders, though he can’t say why.

“Hi, Stiles,” she grins, dislike transparent. “Are you gonna let me in my own house?”

“Not your house,” he grumbles but lets her through the doorway. She pats his cheek and lets her nails rake the skin a little.

“Well, aren’t you precious,” she says, voice saccharine sweet. “Where are Chris and Allison? I can’t wait to see _my_ family.”

He is so  _done_.

“They’re upstairs.” He says shortly, picking up his jacket and sliding his arms into it. “I’m going out. They can reach me on my cell if they want.”

“Like they’re going to want to,” Kate shoots back, and Stiles hates that she has the last word. He stalks away anyway and just climbs on Delilah and drives.

II

The night air is ice cold against his cheeks, and he hesitates at the empty turning. One way leads him to Scott’s, and technically Isaac’s, while the other takes him to Derek and his empty arms.

Stiles chooses, and he parks Delilah in front of the apartment building. He remembers the code for the building, this time, and lets himself in. he’s trying to calm down as he reaches Derek’s door, but he can feel all this emotion and  _hate_ just bubbling to the surface.

Derek swings open the door, and pure surprise and unadulterated joy just flash across his face, but those are gone in an instant when he takes a deep breath in.  Derek’s eyebrows are furrowed so hard it looks he’s giving himself a headache.

And suddenly, Stiles is in Derek’s arms, like he can smell the grief or sadness or something. Which, Stiles thinks, he probably can. Usually he likes to deal with grief alone. He’s sort of a scream into a pillow, cry until you sleep kind of guy. But no, his instincts took him here, to Derek.

He’s massively glad he did come to the apartment, however, when Derek just slams the door shut with his foot, and pulls Stiles inside. He holds him on the couch without saying anything, for a minute, before going to make Stiles food. Macaroni Cheese, actually, and Stiles tells him that it tastes really good.

“It’s not that she was like my mom, because she wasn’t,” Stiles says, once they’re sitting on the couch again. There had been absolute silence before, and Stiles notes how comfortable it is to sit with Derek in silence, how oddly right it feels. Derek holds his hand, thumbs over the slender jut of his wrist, making the skin tingle. “I’ve never thought of her like that, or Chris. But it’s just they’re all I have, I trust my life with them on a nightly basis and she taught me how to string traps in the forest and how to fire a semi-automatic. She was  _nothing_  like my mom.  But she makes me think of my mom. If that makes any sense.” He laughs humourlessly. His eyes feel so heavy.

“Yeah, it does. Like with Laura,” he has to clear his throat a couple of times, and when he does speak, his voice is faintly cracked. “When we lived in New York, she took care of me like a mom would. Like my mom did. And losing her hit me twice as hard.” His voice is ragged, and Stiles can picture it, Derek burying her in the moonlight, alone, so alone.

 Stiles just buries his face in Derek’s shoulder, using the same instinct that brought him here, and Derek’s arms, tight around him, make him feel more safe and stable than he’s felt for a while. He lets out a shuddering breath, which releases the tension in his shoulders.

He curls a hand in Derek’s shirt, the skin underneath scorching hot against his fingertips.

_This isn’t how fuck buddies work_ , he thinks. But he’s not sure that that rule applies for him, anymore.

Stiles breathes inwards swiftly, a gasp, and it is in horror. This isn’t what he wanted.  _This isn’t what he wanted._  But his body is stupidly disobeying, and it refuses to get up and leave Derek’s minutely shaking embrace.

“And that was before Kate fucking Argent came back,” Stiles says against Derek’s chest.

Abruptly Stiles is against the wall, Derek pinning him there by his claws, mouth curved in a snarl, eyes fierce. He gulps for breath, and plans escape routes in his head, but they all involve using force, and Stiles doesn’t want that. However, if he gets turned into a werewolf, he’ll die, so all in all, Derek heals.

 “What did you say?” Derek grates out, eyes burning ice blue. His hands are pressed so hard against Stiles, he’s certain they’re going to bruise, because he bruises like a peach.

 “Kate came back into town,” Stiles gasps out, heart hammering in his chest, legs trembling. It’s his adrenaline taking over. Fight or flight, and right now, his body begs him to fight.

But he stops and thinks, and knows that his thoughts must be flashing across his face, but he’s helpless to stop them. 

_Kate._ The way she always talks about the fire. The way she’d lived in Beacon Hills before the fire, but fled right afterwards, his Argents following swiftly in pursuit. She doesn’t like Stiles, and Stiles had always assumed that it was because he wasn’t Allison, but maybe that’s not it at all. Maybe it’s because he reminds her of the fire, the thing she did, and he’s the only living proof that she knows of that could find out the truth. And she thinks that he would find out the truth, he has the rage and determination necessary to do so.

But absolutely none of that explains Derek’s expressions, which are horrified, terrified, but his face is also filled with self-disgust and loathing, blatant to see. Derek should never play poker, his face can’t stay blank. His eyes are  _burning._ It all washes over him in a freezing wave, cold recognition, when he realises that Kate couldn’t have done the recon necessary on a house that big without inside help. She had to know about the tunnels underground, how to block them, the timetables of everyone that lived inside the house. She got that knowledge somewhere, and Stiles thinks that he’s looking at that source.

Something akin to rage fills him, but then he realises the most simple thing; Derek wouldn’t hurt his family. Not knowingly. If he was tortured into it, Kate would be dead. But she’s still alive, and the way Derek’s looking, he’s ashamed of what he’s done, in an embarrassed sort of way. So no one knows about what they did. He abruptly realises that she must have seduced him, somehow, and that fills him with rage and mindless jealousy, because Kate has just turned thirty six. There is an eleven year age difference between them, and Derek was sixteen when the fire happened.

_Sixteen._  Jesus.

“I didn’t know,” Stiles says helplessly, voice careful. “It was her, wasn’t it? She started it, she killed my dad, she killed your parents, your family,  _she_  did it-”

 “You can’t trust her,” Derek says, voice ragged with panic. His claws press against Stiles’ shoulders, and he’s really questioning his life choices, because some stupid part of him wants to arch against them. But he doesn’t wince. After all, pain is just a message, and Stiles doesn’t want to give Derek’s wolf any other reason to see him as prey. Derek’s just looking at his hands, like he wants to stop hurting Stiles, but he can’t even imagine letting go, not with Kate out there. Not when she could hurt him. So he just has to keep Stiles  _here._  “You can’t go back there, you  _can’t_ -”

“She hasn’t hurt me before,” Stiles says. Then he rethinks, because she has. “Not deathly, at least, and I don’t think she will now. Her brother loves me like a son, her niece does too, she wouldn’t kill me, Derek-”

“But you- you’re a threat to her now, don’t you understand?” Derek sounds so frustrated, and yet his mouth is in a softened line, at Stiles, but his eyebrows are going crazy, furrowed into one tormented line. Despair rolls off him in waves. 

“Derek, nothing’s going to happen to me, Kate won’t hurt me and I can’t just stop living at the Argents. I understand what’s going on, what you’re going through-”

“No, you don’t,” Derek says, voice miserable but face blank, tears welled in his eyes, and it hurts Stiles. He pulls his shirt up and over Stiles’ head, the brush of material making the claw marks Derek made around his collarbones sting. “You don’t understand, Stiles I can’t let her take you away from me too, I can’t-”

Stiles is still reeling from that little, or rather  _GINORMOUS_ , confession when Derek kisses those little cuts. He whines a little in the back of his throat, like it hurts him that Stiles is hurting, that they’re so interlinked they’re feeling what the other is feeling. Weird.  

 He rests his hands on Derek’s back, keeping him close, actually; because one, his mouth feels incredible, warm and wet and soothing, on Stiles’ stinging shoulders, and two, he needs the closeness as much as Derek does. He feels like he’s been flipped

 The weirdest thing is, Stiles thinks, is that this isn’t a sex thing; Derek is shuddering, talking into his skin, but he’s not saying anything other than, “No, Stiles, you  _can’t._ ”

Stiles realises with an abrupt shock what this means- Kate  _hurt_  Derek. Badly. His ability to trust must be shot, torn to tatters, and guilty probably doesn’t even begin to cover how he probably feels.  _What must Derek think of when he sees Stiles?_

Stiles thinks about their relationship from Derek’s perspective. Derek would see another Hunter that he’s let close, and with their seven year age difference, maybe he tortures himself with it. And the fact that they fool around at the house, it’s the knife he can fall back on. Something he can hate himself for.

He can hate himself by using Stiles, ruining his family’s heritage and his own life by screwing a  _Hunter_ , in their home, the home Derek lost because he screwed a Hunter in the first place.  It hits him like a punch in the gut, then, and it’s a testament to Stiles that he stays still, but he does make a wounded sound, because he knows all about self-loathing, okay? He covers his self-loathing with narcissism, but Derek doesn’t even do that.

It’s in that moment that he knows that he won’t let Derek do this for much longer, can’t let him.

It’s also then that he knows that their days are numbered, because if Derek uses him to hate himself, he can’t feel about Stiles the stupid, useless way that Stiles feels about him. He can’t let Derek commit this- suicide- by being in a relationship with him. But this one night, he lets himself have this, have Derek, if he’s not going to have him anymore.

It suddenly hits him that what they’ve been doing is so far beyond wrong, it’s ridiculous. And it's Stiles' fault, for badgering Derek into this relationship. 

Derek lifts his head away from his skin and makes a pained sound, before apologising, like he’s even done  _anything_ wrong. Like he thinks that everything is his fault, he blames himself for everything, the Hale fire, Stiles’ dad’s death, maybe even the way that Stiles feels about him- he feels like he’s manipulated him or something stupid like that. And Stiles hates that, won’t stand for it-

“Derek, it’s  _fine,_ you’re fine,” Stiles soothes. He puts his arms around Derek, holding him close, iron-tight, like he has wanted to for a while now. He whispers into Derek’s neck that none of this is his fault, nothing is his fault,  _nothing,_ and he doesn’t have to apologise. Stiles doesn’t even know what he’s saying, anymore, just comforting sounds, half-words, murmuring Derek’s name like a chant, until Derek puts his face back against Stiles’ neck.

Derek just hangs onto Stiles, and Stiles hugs him fiercely, comforts him, like he should be comforted.

Derek’s still repeating those words, “I’m  _sorry_.” Again and again, until the sounds are blurred. Stiles just shushes him, lets his hand card through Derek’s silk-soft hair, other hand tight around Derek’s waist, shirt bunched up under his fingertips.

“Come on,” Stiles says firmly, and pulls Derek towards his bedroom, walking backwards until he backs up against Derek’s bed. He tugs off the remnants of his shirt, pulls off Derek’s too, for that matter, and just lets himself get pushed back on the bed. Derek pulls him to the top of the bed, the pillows, and rests back against them as Derek tugs off the rest of his clothing, feather-soft even though his claws poke out. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Stiles swears, and Derek shudders. Like he’s wanted to hear those words for a while.

Derek’s body is held tightly, his eyes near closed, forehead tightly furrowed. Stiles shifts as Derek pulls off his last sock, and gets crushed to Derek’s chest on the bed. Derek’s frowning, like he knows he should be being careful and letting go, but he just  _can’t._ So Stiles places an off-centre kiss on the edge of his cheek, and lets Derek hold him close. They both know he could push or pull away if he wanted to, and they both realise the significance in the fact that Stiles doesn’t move.

Stiles runs his hands up and down Derek’s heavily muscled back, petting motions that are intended to soothe, and Derek lets his weight press against Stiles. Settles over him like the hottest rain cloud that has ever existed, pins him there, keeps him there.  His skin burns against Stiles’.

“I’m staying here,” Stiles points out, but Derek doesn’t let go.

So that’s how Stiles falls asleep, caged in by Derek’s heat, protected from Kate and the rest of the outside world. His chest moves with Derek’s, more slowly, now, and they breathe against each other.

He doesn’t dream of anything, thank God.

 

He’s woken up by Derek letting Stiles go. He’s sat up, going for a glass of water on the bedside table.

“Do you realise you sing in your sleep?” Derek asks, voice scratchy from sleep, frowning as he sits up, a little. “ACDC. It’s distracting.”

“At least even subconsciously, I have good taste,” Stiles says wearily, and laughs when Derek pushes him off the bed. Derek climbs back under the sheet, and gives Stiles the  _come hither_ eyes.

Stiles huddles for warmth under the duvet, against Derek’s side, and Stiles lets out his breath in an exhalation that eases the tension from his shoulders. In his sleep, Derek curves an arm around Stiles waist, murmuring sleepily about  _staying._ Derek is so warm against his side, Stiles has no trouble falling asleep in his burning embrace.

II

Stiles wakes up two hours later, according to the glow in the dark alarm clock (which, Stiles is gonna have to mock, because it’s just begging for it) and Derek’s still asleep.

His face is vulnerable, blank, mouth fallen open a little and he feels a rush of warmth. His hair curls back from his temples, shockingly dark against the pale skin of his face. His cheeks are flushed, and he’s smiling a little in his sleep even as a slight growl runs through his teeth.

Why does he get to make Stiles feel like this? He’s almost one hundred per cent certain that he shouldn’t feel like this, and he didn’t even know he  _could_  feel like this. He can’t. Not when he isn’t anything but a knife, to Derek.

“I’ve got you,” Derek says, voice sleepy but assuring, and for some reason, the words make Stiles furious. Anger swells over him like a tide, dragging him under, until all he can see is red.

“I don’t need  _you_ ,” he forces out, voice snarling with anger. Derek jerks back like he’s been shot and can’t see through the masquerade of rage.

This time, like all those other times, Derek watches him go in silence, and lets him run away. Even lets Stiles steal one of his shirts. But he doesn’t realise that it’s for the very last time.  

II

Stiles doesn’t go back to the Argent house, not technically. He gets his books and some clothes and some of his least lethal weapons, and doesn’t see anyone. Then he goes to Scott’s place, instead. Scott’s mom screeches at him, tells him how much he’s grown, how much he looks like his dad and how handsome he looks. He tries to smile, honestly he does, and she sees this. She frowns in realisation, understanding. That he’s just lost another mom. She also takes in his backpack.

“Scott’s up in his room,” she says gently, brushing over the top of his head with a gentle hand. “Stay as long as you want, sweetie. It’s good to see you again.”

Stiles interrupts a wicked game of Mario Kart. Scott sighs when he sees Stiles’ backpack, but doesn’t say anything aside from, “Isaac, can you go and find the backup inflatable bed?”

II

So he unofficially moves in with the McCalls.

Allison tries not to speak to him at school, and he can tell by the change in her movements that she’s started Training. She refuses to talk properly to Scott. She’s not okay internally, though on the outside, her step is lighter, more graceful, and it’s horribly familiar.

“Sister mine,” he greets one Wednesday afternoon when he eventually gets her alone. She’s sat in the library working alone on a project for APUSH. He knows because he’s nowhere near finished with his.

“Stiles,” she says, begrudging. It’s a start.

“Wanna go get milkshakes after school? My treat. I’ll let you get the peanut butter deluxe with cut up strawberries and I won’t even judge,” Stiles asks, hand on heart to prove he’s sincere.

Her mouth twitches, trying to fight the smile. He’s always had that effect on her.

“I can’t. I’m busy.”

“Movies, then. Or just a movie night at Scott’s? Popcorn, Mario Kart and Twizzlers?” Stiles asks, stupidly hopeful. “That way you can hang out with your two favourite teenage dudes at once. It’ll be awesome, promise, and I’ll pick you up and drop you home.”

He can see Allison hesitating, hedging, because she probably does want to spend time with them. It’s just Kate whispering in her ears that she shouldn’t, because they are not Argent and not trained. They are a waste of time.

“We can watch _Sense & Sensibility,_” Stiles teases. “Or _Dr Zhivago_?”

He knows from experience that these are her two very favourite movies, and the offer of relaxing in front of a movie is strong, when the alternative will be training. Training that consistently, at the start especially, hurts and leaves her bloody and bruised.

Allison’s mouth twists, rueful.

“I miss you,” he admits, embarrassed. “It’s not the same living with someone that doesn’t flood the bathroom or leave me post-its on the fridge and steal my lucky charms. Can’t we at least spend some time together?”

Allison’s face seems to go cold and dead. When she speaks, her voice is flat.

“That’s the choice you made, Stiles Stilinski,” she says.

He flinches at his old name, and she looks pleased when he does, like she wanted to hurt him.

With that she packs up her things and leaves. She doesn’t answer any of his messages or attempts at contact. He leaves her alone before long because he can see his picture texts are just aggravating her and not making her laugh. 

Chris doesn’t call him, and neither, for that matter, does Kate.

He  _hates_ that he left her alone in that household, with just Christopher and Kate.  _Kate_.

He left his sister to that, and yes, she’s the biggest badass he knows, because she’s dealt with her mother’s death much better than Stiles ever did, but there is only so much a person can take before they snap.

Derek calls, leaves messages, but Stiles doesn’t let himself listen to them.

Stiles gets Scott to lock his windows at night, and he does, but he feels like he can sense Derek out there anyway. He can feel the ache in his bones, the one that makes him want to go and find Derek.  

He spends time in the library at school, while Scott and Isaac work, doesn’t leave time for anything else. Doesn’t give himself time to think, really- joins the lacrosse team just in time for their Championship game, picks up another two extra-credit projects, and studies for all his Finals.

He doesn’t give himself enough time to want Derek, to pine for him, but he does anyway.

II

He can’t let go fully until the funeral passes.

“He asked about you again,” Scott says quietly, the night before the funeral, and Stiles grits his teeth. They both know who Scott’s talking about.

He makes sure that Scott and Isaac go to Derek when they have questions and that they go to him for training and help, because Derek is good at this. Even though Isaac and Scott (mostly Scott) complain that he looks constipated and asks about Stiles too much, and gets really grumpy, he’s good at the big things; like talking Isaac through his first shift to Beta, their first full moon, he’s good at chaining them up, helping to get Scott to back away from Allison.

“Good for him. Scott, remember to tell Mr Harris where I am tomorrow, okay?” He asks again.  He’s not going to go into school, doesn’t want to see the pity in everyone’s eyes on the actual day. Doesn’t want to have to lug in his black suit.

It’s not like it’s important; he’s just doing extra credit projects, even though he doesn’t plan on going to Harvard (he applied and got in, but he’s not going) it’s just to waste his time. He was going to be a Hunter; now he doesn’t know what he’s going to do with the rest of his life. Either way, school is mostly over, Finals are done. Besides, he’s probably not going to sleep tonight, so he gives himself time to sleep the next morning.

It works like a charm.

Scott leaves him a bowl of cereal the next morning, on the side. He doesn’t even think about eating it; the way his stomach is twisting and turning, Stiles would probably see it again in the next five minutes.

He sits at the table in his suit, staring at his hands, and sees his second phone light up with Derek’s number. He doesn’t know why he keeps it fully charged; it’s just nice to know that someone out there still cares, still worries over him. His contact photo flashes to the screen, and it’s Derek squinting at the camera, with the  _bitch please_  look on his face. The one that he’s perfected. He hangs on for a while, before disconnecting. The little square flashes up, reading that Stiles has one new message. His fingers twitch for a minute, and before he knows why, he’s listening to the message.

_“Stiles,”_  Derek starts off, and he coughs a little. There’s the buzz of the TV behind him. “ _I just wanted to check in with you, see how you were. I know today will be difficult, so if you need me for_ anything _, just call me…on the number I’ve always had. I understand, okay? I know that I’m not…right for you, exactly.”_  There’s a choke of laughter, but there’s no humour behind it.  _“I don’t want to know about how you’re doing through Scott and Isaac, okay? I just miss you, Genim. Call me.”_

Stiles shivers when he says his name, because it reminds him of all those times that Derek would call him that. He wanted Stiles to associate his old name with good things, rather than sad things. The bastard.

Strangely enough, the message works its magic and settles the rolling sensation in his stomach. He’s still sweating, but he doesn’t actively think he’s going to die anymore. He’s able to get to Delilah and drive to the graveyard. The service is small, and he discovers he’s actually late, because someone brought the service forward by thirty five minutes.

The pastor is reading out a solemn sermon when he appears, and he gets a dark look as he stands on the fringe of the service.

There’s Christopher, Allison, and Kate sitting at the front, faces stony, with other Hunters positioned around them. They aren’t his men, the ones that he’s known for most of his life, the ones he’d fought with, gone to the movies with, babysat for; these guys have to belong to Kate. They pay no attention to him, anyway. None of them do.

Not even Christopher and Allison.

Not even when he sidles up to the coffin and scatters earth across the surface of the lowered coffin, waits for the soft, familiar patter sound of earth hitting wood. He backs away from the gravesite, feeling hollow, and saunters back to Delilah.

Only the heavy hand on his shoulder stops him from going anywhere.

He turns to see the blue-grey glare of Christopher, flanked by Allison and Kate.

They are unsmiling.

“We need to talk,” Christopher says firmly, in a no nonsense tone that was only reserved for Stiles when he wanted him to have protein shakes for breakfast (which, for the record, would never happen) but it makes Stiles immediately suspicious.

“Go ahead,” Stiles says generously, sliding his hands into his pockets, an easy grin filling his face. It’s at odds with the acceleration of his heartbeat, the clench of his stomach. He has to tell himself to play it cool, because seeing Kate makes him want to hurt things, especially as she’s so close to his dad’s grave; Stiles can even see it, see the crab apple tree.

“Back at the house,” Chris clarifies, a false smile on his face. Allison parrots the expression, but her brown eyes are hurt, and uncertain as they settle on Stiles.  Kate just smirks. Like she does anything else, aside from smirk and suck out every remainder of happiness, like some sort of Umbridge Dementor cross breed that managed to slither its way out of hell and right into Stiles’ life.

Stiles’ stomach sinks. This isn’t going to be good.

II

Stiles drives back to the Argents, behind the Chevrolet, followed by an assortment of Hummers and Range Rovers. It makes him uneasy.

They disperse, however, as they enter Suburbia; what’s unnerving is that they all live around the same area, probably have kids that Stiles goes to school with. His father’s never made Hunters out of the Neighbourhood Watch before. Something is so very, very wrong.

The feeling worsens when he parks in his usual spot, and Delilah’s crowded in by Kate and her ugly af Hummer. He stalks to the front door, flanked by Chris, Kate and Allison, and feels the back of his neck prickle. He glances around a little, before one of them (he assumes Kate) shoves him through the front door. Even his training doesn’t save him, and he sprawls on the floor.

He picks himself up, gritting his teeth at the smirk that paints all three Argent faces; it’s eerily similar. His father clamps hands over his shoulders and leads him to the dining room. He sets Stiles at one end, while he takes the seat at the head of the table; Allison and Kate choose seats on either side of the table. All eyes are on Stiles.  

“So, the Ebola virus, that’s a bitch huh?” Stiles says pleasantly, hoping for some effect.

Allison smirks, a little, and it’s pure Kate. She is not okay. She’s not. That smile wasn’t his sister, the one who cries when she steps on a spider, who goes green at blood in films, the one who’s read  _Anna Karenina_ about seventeen times in a row and quotes it on a semi regular basis for  _emphasis_. She didn’t just wear black unless she forgot to ask Stiles to do her laundry and had to wear the very last thing at the bottom of her closet.

She didn’t look at anyone like they were scum, which is how she’s looking at Stiles right now. He can’t help but feel like this is totally his fault; if he hadn’t stepped back from her, and instead been there for her like her brother, which is what he’s supposed to be, maybe she would be fine. Maybe.

“I want you to move back in here,” Chris says firmly, and there is no question in that statement; it’s an order. “We need you. The Alpha still hasn’t been caught and we are no closer to finding out who it is.”

Stiles nods, like he’s thinking about it, instead of dead certain that he’s never moving back into a house that has Kate Argent in it. He can feel her gaze crawling all over him, and it’s making him want to shower.

“I’ll think about it,” he says, voice petulant. His father inclines his head.

“Then after you move back in, we’ll have a talk about your choice of friends,” Chris says, and Stiles stops breathing for a second.

“What have you got against Scott?” Stiles laughs, trying to brush it off. They don’t know. They can’t; Stiles has been so careful with both of them, made sure that they haven’t been stupid. He paints a lovely picture of the realities of being caught by a Hunter like Kate, so they pay attention when he talks.

“Isaac,” Kate says, and her lip curls around his name. “He’s a little lunar inclined, isn’t he?”

“Not the last time I’d noticed,” Stiles lies easily, although he’s having an internal panic attack.  “And seeing as I live with him and Scott, I’d think I would notice. I’ll keep an eye on him for you.”

Kate’s expression falters for a second, and in that second, Stiles knows that he’s said something wrong.

“I knew you would,” Chris says pleasantly, like they’re talking about cake, and not the death of an eighteen year old.

 Inevitably it would be death, with Kate involved; she doesn’t care about the Code, never has, and it’s part of the reason why they have never agreed, exactly. She calls it his ‘commitment to a meaningless piece of paper’ whereas Stiles calls it ‘having morals’. Stiles debates killing her right here, her and her narrow eyed smirking face, and relishes the idea, but he can’t take that from Derek.

She is his to kill.

“Prom,” Chris says firmly. Stiles pales.

“Scott’s taking me,” Allison preens, and Jesus, what do they have her smoking? “We’ve rented a limo, though, so it won’t be weird if you tag along. Jackson and Lydia chipped in with us. I think Isaac’s coming too, along with Danny and his boyfriend.”

Stiles is thirty per cent certain that he may have been informed of these events before, by Scott, but the likelihood is that it’s gone over his head. And thinking it through, he’s been a pretty shitty friend so far this year. He’s going to have to give Scott back the mug he’d given Stiles as a late eighteenth birthday present, the one that had read:  _Best Friend in the entire world._

He just nods grimly.

“You left your suit here,” Chris points out.

“It would be a shame, wouldn’t it, if you didn’t go?” Kate says sweetly, and Stiles is hopeful that she comes back as a cockroach, in her next life. It would be wonderfully ironic, she can’t stand cockroaches. They, along with any kind of human emotion, _scare_ her.

“For who?” Stiles asks tonelessly. “I’m sure Finstock will cry. Really. Tears, everywhere. That man loves me like a son.”

She pretends to laugh, but the smile she gives him is closer to a sneer, than anything else.

Stiles is going to prom. It’s all he’s been dreaming of for years, honestly.

II

Stiles uses this little thing called common sense and gears up for prom.

Not because Lydia will be ferocious if she doesn’t get prom queen (which she totally will, there was a hair rising almost yelling fight when she wasn’t almost named Valedictorian, but all was right in the world) but because Stiles has this niggling feeling in the pit of his stomach that something is going to go down- there’s a reason why the Argents want him to be at Prom, and it’s not for his amusing anecdotes.

He’s not stupid enough to bring a gun.

It’s 2013, and bringing a gun to a school event can only end badly- what if he lost his jacket? What if some stupid kid took his jacket? He just can’t risk it, even though he’s severely weakened without his best weapon.

Instead, he packs liquid Wolfsbane, almost colourless and tasteless, save for the lilac sheen, Silver powder, silver knuckledusters (so he packs one hell of a punch) and a pathetically small knife. He’s still surprised that any of it is in his room, if he’s honest. Though it doesn’t feel like his room, anymore, the house doesn’t feel like he lives there; it’s too tidy and white and uncluttered and big.

Basically, it’s not the McCall house, which he now considers home. This is a bad thing because bad things tend to happen to houses that Stiles considers homes.

Case in point: he’d just started to get used to living with just his dad, became accustomed to his sandwiches when the Hale fire happened, and Stiles had to move and change. Lucky, right?

In any case, he’s more than happy to leave the Argent house when the limo arrives.

 

Lydia and Jackson are not pleased at his presence.

Danny is busy yelling at his boyfriend down the phone.

The feeling of malcontent only increases as the ridiculously large limo stops off at the McCall house, and Isaac and Scott crawl inside.

Allison is immediately all over Scott, which makes Isaac frown aggressively, and cross his arms. Stiles never asked to see his pseudo-older sister shoving her tongue down his best friend’s throat, because he never wanted to see it.

He sits next to Stiles in near silence, both engrossed in their own misery. Well, in Isaac’s case, jealousy, but Stiles pretends not to notice. For his own sake. He doesn’t want to know what his best friends are doing to each other on their own time.

II

The gymnasium is decked out in a vomit-inducing shade of peach and purple.

Stiles feels instantly nauseous.

Lydia goes off to yell at the planning committee, Jackson in tow; because apparently nothing looks like it was supposed to. Stiles wonders how different they both might have been, if they hadn’t grown up for the past few years in this bubble of fear, with nothing to cling onto but each other; Lydia’s still freakishly intelligent, but she is still the It girl with little regard for anyone who can’t boost her status. Jackson’s still the athlete, the one who cares too much about everything, and it just makes Stiles sad. Additionally, they’re both annoying as hell, especially when they’re together, and when are they ever apart?

He sits with Isaac on a table at the edge of the dance-floor, clutching glasses of spiked punch. Neither of them dances, though they get asked to. Stiles is trying to keep his eyes on every exit, which is more difficult than first assumed with the vast number of people here, and Isaac sulks aggressively.

Isaac shoots Scott and Allison the evil eye, where they’re slow dancing to a P!nk song. Scott looks uncomfortable, mostly, and Stiles remembers that Allison hadn’t really been speaking to Scott, so this must be awkward. Especially seeing as she doesn’t know about Scott being a werewolf.

Stiles is acutely miserable, and this is worsened by the announcement of prom king and queen.

See, he used to have a dream, when he was about six, before his mom died and everything went to hell; he would win prom king, Lydia would win queen. He would be tall and his parents would watch on (why would his parents be there, that’s the one thing that confuses him now) with pride, and everyone would clap and cheer. He’d be captain of the lacrosse team like his dad had been. Everything would be perfect.

Since he’s come back to Beacon Hills, however, he’s treated like the average bad boy, which is entirely inaccurate, because one, Stiles doesn’t smoke;  two, he has no tattoos, and three, aside from Delilah he has no bad boy attributes. He hands in homework on time. He reads. He does extra work. He just happens to look like danger.

Either way, he’s not up on the stage with Lydia, his parents are dead, he’s pining for a werewolf and he’s got weapons in his pockets.

As expected (to the other girls’ chagrin) Lydia and Jackson win.

There’s a perfect moment, in which cameras flash, and Lydia and Jackson stand as poised and made up as models. Then what should be a cloud of confetti rains down, and all hell breaks loose.

II

It’s possibly the best, most disgusting prank ever.

Someone’s taken  _Carrie_ too seriously, and has replaced confetti with blood and guts and body parts. However, it is human blood, human body parts (Lydia gets a human foot to the face) so terror is the order of the day.

Teenagers scream and run everywhere. Stiles goes straight for Scott, with a hand firmly on Isaac; Danny’s suddenly in tow and Allison clutches Scott with an entirely neutral expression on her face. She looks too neutral. He knows that this isn’t Argent work, it’s Alpha werewolf- the dismembered body parts were bitten apart, he can see the edges of teeth marks- but she’s too accustomed to blood and violence. It makes him wonder how Kate’s training her.

Stiles leads them through the writhing crowd of panicked, screaming teenagers, and out into the parking lot. Stiles can feel that he’s being watched, but he just pushes through until he finds their limo, and shoves them all inside.

“Take us home,” he hollers at the driver, and they’re peeling out of the parking lot as simple as that.

Fear makes Allison horny, apparently, and this is something Stiles never wanted to know. So he gets the driver to drop him off at the Argent house first.

He doesn’t expect Danny to get out with him.

Isaac shakes his head miserably at Stiles and mouths;  _I hate you_ when he gets out _._

“That was unexpected,” Stiles says, running a hand through his sweaty hair, still confused as to why Danny’s with him.

He wants to get Delilah and go back to the McCalls and crawl into his inflatable bed.

“You took that well,” Danny says, and his dimples deepen as his grin widens. “Thanks for getting us out of there. In one piece. Even though Jackson’s going to kill me.”

“No problem,” Stiles shrugs, smiling blandly. “Everyone seemed to be freaking out, huh?”

“Everyone.” Danny agrees, musing. “Apart from you.” His eyes seem to glitter as they trek up and down Stiles. Stiles can smell diluted alcohol on him, and remembers the fight he’d had with his boyfriend on the way to prom.  Stiles feels a wave of pity.

Aesthetically, Stiles can recognise that Danny’s attractive, but he’s sad to note that he does nothing for him. Absolutely nothing. When he sticks his hands in the lapels of Stiles’ tux jacket, Stiles has to push him away.

Kissing Danny would not solve anything and it’s not fair for anyone. Stiles is attached, and has been attached for a long time, whether he realised it or not.

“Let’s go get food,” Stiles suggests, and steers him towards the spare car.

He’s not riding Delilah with a drunk guy on the back. That’s how accidents happen. He chooses the only Diner in town and winds down the windows and blasts Kelly Clarkson to get Danny sober.

II

“I no longer want to vomit. Pastel tissue-paper just makes me want to puke, I don’t know,” Danny says, settling in opposite Stiles. Stiles wants to laugh, honestly he does, but his brain is caught between enjoying the normalcy and how  _easy_ it is with Danny.

Being with Derek doesn’t feel like that at all. His kisses make Stiles feel like the sky could fall and like he’s let something into his bloodstream, something bitter and hot and conductive, and that’s why touching Derek feels so good, like he’s been electrocuted and still feeling the aftershocks. Even if he doesn’t want to remember, his body does, and his cheeks flame.

He glances over Danny’s shoulder as he continues talking about Jackson and Lydia, and the fact that they’ve just won prom queen and king, and Stiles is ashamed to admit that he tunes out. Not because Danny isn’t interesting, because he is, he’s hilarious.

But his stories aren’t told with that biting judgement and cynicism and black humour wound throughout. He’s got perfect hair and a nice body but all of that means nothing to Stiles because it isn’t  _his_ body or hair. His eyes travel over Danny’s shoulder and standing there, like Stiles has actually summoned him out of  _want,_  or something, is Derek.

Stiles jolts, and runs a hand through his hair. He doesn’t know how to deal with this.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” Stiles murmurs to Danny, cutting through a sentence.

“Yeah,” Danny frowns at Stiles, hand already reaching for his phone.

“Derek?” He says, when he reaches the man in question.

Derek looks simultaneously disappointed and annoyed, and you know what, it would be easier if he hated Stiles. If Stiles could hate him. He wants to hate Derek so  _badly._

“Were you following me?” Stiles asks, and Derek just holds up a ticket. Number 32. So he’s waiting to collect food.

“ _Stiles_ ,” Derek says, and he sounds angry. Well, that makes two of them. Stiles is just so fucking  _done_.

He lets Derek haul him out by the front of his tux, hands tight against the lapels, and just prays that Danny won’t follow. He doesn’t need to see this, because whatever this will be? It’s not going to be pretty. 

He ends up in the alleyway next to the restaurant, and you know what? No matter the state, county, town, every alleyway stinks of cat pee. It’s a fact.

He turns to yell at Derek, but is surprised by the hands that just hold Stiles against Derek, like they had, the last time they’d seen each other. Derek’s hands are tight enough to bruise against his hips, and Stiles has needed this strength. Stiles shudders at how good he feels. He’d missed this. He’s just wanted Derek so much.

Does Derek dream about him? He has to. Stiles probably runs through Derek’s dreams as much as Derek runs through Stiles’-

So he doesn’t resist when Derek just presses his mouth against Stiles’. They burn against each other as Stiles meets Derek’s tongue, while Derek buries moans in Stiles’ mouth. Derek’s hands hold Stiles tightly to him, but that doesn’t stop Stiles from shoving him away a minute later. He feels like he hadn’t been breathing, and he’s just been given oxygen, and ignores the fact that this is the most alive he’s felt in a month. His hands are curled into fists, to stop them from reaching for Derek, to hide the fact that he’s shaking so badly.

_No._

“I can’t do this,” Stiles says, shaking his head. They’re both gasping for breath. “I told you. I’m not going to let you do this to yourself just because you think you  _like_ me or something.”

“What did you think we were doing, these past few months?” Derek asks, entirely incredulous.

Stiles is speechless- he’d thought that he was just something to fuck, to Derek, nothing more, and that’s worse, somehow, that Derek has deluded himself into thinking that he actually cares about Stiles- that Stiles has  _made_ him care-

“Stiles-”

“No, Derek,” he says, abruptly exhausted. “Just go home, okay?”

“No,” Derek says shortly, mouth set into a stubborn line that Stiles would otherwise appreciate, but right now, he just can’t. “I am not walking away from you.” His hands wind tight around Stiles’ hips and hold him still, and Stiles lets his head fall against Derek’s shoulder. Derek’s head nuzzles at the back of his, sweet and gentle.

“C’mon, Derek,” Stiles murmurs.

“I love you,” Derek mutters, hand stroking at Stiles’ hip.

“No, you don’t,” Stiles snaps. “I kill werewolves for a living, Derek. I’m an assassin, for all intents and purposes, and you  _can’t_  be okay with that.”

“I do love you,” Derek insists firmly, lips curled back in a snarl, voice emotional. “Don’t tell me what I feel.”

“I wish I could love you,” Stiles says, and that’s all he can give Derek, right now. Won’t give him anything more, because it’s not right, and it’s not good for either of them. “But I don’t, Derek.”

Derek shivers, and his hands fall away from Stiles’ hips. Despair swirls in his eyes. And he walks away, like Stiles wanted him to, because he had to let go at some point.

Stiles wonders when he got so good at lying to himself.

II

He drives Danny home after that, because he’s really not in the mood to do anything aside from listen to some Taylor Swift and cry manfully into a beaten up pillow. He’ll ask Isaac to make him hot chocolate because that kid has a dark gift for making the best hot chocolate in Beacon Hills.

He checks Facebook for something to do when his car refuses to start a few paces away from the Mahealani household. He would go back and ask for a tow, but after Danny told him that he needs to get his head out of his ass (a mean feat, by any reckoning) Stiles is guessing that he wouldn’t be met with offers of help.

There are photos from the evening, and they make him snicker.

Jackson’s face is just priceless on the moment of impact; horror, absolute surprise, and it kind of looks like (if you look really hard) that he’s just shit his pants. The photos from seconds later, the blood soaked shirts, the sputtering, that’s actually hilarious. If you ignore the dismembered body parts. Lydia looks like grumpy cat, equal parts furious and ferocious.

Stiles knows that this isn’t just a prank taken too far; it’s bloody and visceral and mean, sure, but it’s also hilarious. Dark humour, which is totally Derek’s thing, and if he didn’t know Derek, he would blame him. But it’s not Derek, because one, he’s not feral, and two, he hates dances just as much as Stiles does.

But it’s a werewolf, and one with dark humour.

It has to be the Alpha.

Stiles casts his mind back to his initial group of suspects; the Alpha, to have stayed hidden this long, would have to be incredibly smart and patient. All that stands in his head now, has stood in his head for a while, is Peter Hale.

The same Peter Hale who died two years ago.

Supposedly, Stiles thinks. Never consider someone dead until you see their body.  _Lord of the Rings_ taught him that, and Peter’s casket was buried empty.

Stiles remembers Derek telling him about it; Peter’s nurse coerced him into signing over all the money in his will over to her, then killed him, hid his body, and finally killed herself out of remorse. Admittedly, it made no sense to Stiles then, and still doesn’t, but it was a huge scandal in the town at the time. The sort that’s discussed in hushed tones and shunned as morbid, not overly investigated or discussed. Convenient.

So he follows this reasonable hunch, and goes back to the nursing home. Maybe he can crack his way into their files, find out something a bit more substantial than Derek’s quiet, mournful, ‘he was a joker with a good brain’.

II

The car actually starts after Stiles prays a couple more times and he makes it to the Nursing home in under twenty minutes.

It has surprisingly poor security, for a home with multi-millionaires.

Stiles is able to clamber through an open window in the back, and falls into an empty bedroom. The bed is empty, sterile white paper, and it emanates coldness. Stiles feels a shiver of unease, and debates leaving. There’s one other bed, taking up half the room, and the curtain’s drawn around it. He feels a stupid temptation to draw back the curtain, but he refuses to be one of the people at the start of Supernatural. So he ignores it and steps past it.

Instead, the curtain draws back dramatically to reveal someone perched on the bed.

Grinning at him, with fangs tipped with blood, is Peter Hale.

How does Stiles know this?

Because he’s seen him before.

II

Stiles curses at his stupidity.

He vaguely remembers the grandpa at the bakery in town, the one who had hit on him over cream filled pastries. That, as it turns out, was Peter Hale. Now that he knows, he can recognise parts of Derek in him that is going to make it difficult for Stiles to kill him; his eyes are vaguely like Derek’s, in shape if not colour, the high, defined cheekbones, the dark hair are all clearly Hale attributes.

He smiles malevolently at Stiles, cocking his head when Stiles doesn’t say anything.

“Stiles Argent has nothing to say?” Peter says after a moment, and Stiles still feels like his voice makes creatures walk across his skin.

“Not right now,” Stiles admits. “You’re gonna have to give me a couple minutes if you want me to come up with something  _really_ witty.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything else,” Peter says, and hops off the bed. His eyes glint, ruby red as arterial blood, at Stiles, and he backs away as Peter slinks forward. He’s not stupid enough to run, but that doesn’t mean he wants Peter Psychopathic-Serial-Killer-and-Flirter Hale within ten feet of him.

“Why shouldn’t I kill you?” Peter asks, eyes glittering with amusement. Stiles wants to kick him quite viciously in the crown jewels. He’s only inches away from Stiles, breath hot against his cheek, reeking of blood. Lovely.

“I’m just a poor boy, nobody loves me,” Stiles shoots back. Maybe quoting Bohemian Rhapsody isn’t the best idea, but Stiles is reeling from the plot twist to end all plot twists.

“You’re supposed to be smarter than this, Stiles.” This asshole sounds disappointed. Stiles kicks open the door from behind, and the room is flooded with ghostly white light.   

“High expectations for a dead dude,” Stiles says, as pleasantly as he can manage as he’s backed into a hallway, all poor lighting and white walls and speckled linoleum.  

“If you hadn’t noticed, I’m still very much alive,” Peter says, frowning a little. “I know teenagers are more stupid than they used to be, but this is shocking.”

“Your nephew seems to think that you’re dead,” Stiles shoots back. “And I can recite pi, thanks.”

“It’s called faking one’s death, it’s fairly popular in most procedural dramas, keep up Stiles. And for your information, I can also recite pie,” Peter grins. “Pecan, cherry, apple, peach…”

“Who are you, Dean Winchester,” Stiles says. His grin makes Stiles uncomfortable, and not in a good, Derek Hale way.

“Not the last time I checked,” Peter says, surveying Stiles like a wolf selecting prey.

“Comforting to know.” Stiles nods. “Aren’t you going to get on with the claw slashing, bloody death part of the evening?”

Peter, to his credit, just smirks. “I’m thinking about it.”

“While you’re doing that, mind if I run?” Stiles says. He’s trying to get a feel for Peter Hale, and the guy’s as slippery as slick oil. It’s making Stiles’ job extremely difficult.

“As long as you don’t mind me murdering every other patient here,” Peter says offhandedly. He’s bluffing.

“In what world would I not mind that?” Stiles scoffs.

“The world where you’re a Hunter who doesn’t mind fucking a werewolf?” Peter asks innocently.

Stiles jolts. How does he- well, he must recognise Derek’s scent, from earlier on in the evening. Son of a bitch. Technically, it’s an accurate statement.

“A good werewolf,” Stiles points out. “Can you say the same?”

“Oh, Stiles,” Peter grins. “I only killed those who deserved it.”

“Those who helped to start the fire,” Stiles corrects.

“Effectively, yes. Shouldn’t you be thanking me?” Peter says, pity clear in his voice. Stiles feels a hot rush of hatred.

“For killing Laura and Erica and Victoria Argent? For biting Scott and Isaac without their consent?” Stiles lists off. “I think the only thanks you’ll be getting from me is a punch in the throat.”

“That would be a shame. I think then I’d have to kill all of them.” Peter says, half-sad, the git. His eyes are glittering with mischief.

“All of them?” Stiles asks, because making Peter talk gives him extra time to think.

He can’t run from this place. He’ll only get out of this alive if he doesn’t fight Peter, if he gives him what he wants. And Stiles is trying to figure out what this is.

Or if he incapacitates Peter so badly that he can’t follow for a good couple of hours.

“Scott, Isaac, Derek, Allison,” Peter reels off. “You see, Stiles, I’ve been watching you. I know everything about you.”

“So that’s where Derek gets the stalker vibe from,” Stiles shoots back. “And you wouldn’t kill your nephew.”

“I killed my niece,” Peter shrugs, with no remorse whatsoever.

Stiles feels a bolt of hatred, and his mind flicks back to Derek talking about Laura, when he sometimes did; that she was the best Alpha, because she was so bossy, but she had the best intentions, and she had that lucky combination of being able to say what she thought, and still remain well liked. She could get Derek to open up whenever he was feeling low, and the way she’d been his wingman in most situations, and that whenever he’s in a social situation, he hears her voice judging him in her head, telling him what to do. He knows that Derek still has all of her stuff, his code for his phone is her birthday and Stiles remembers making a joke about  _Game of Thrones_ , and Derek telling him that Laura would have liked him. Stiles wants to throttle Peter, for Laura.

“Well someone’s not getting uncle of the year,” Stiles spits out, though it’s a lot more polite than the things swirling around in his head.

“But you have a point, Stiles. I want Derek and Scott and Isaac for my pack.” Peter says pleasantly. Stiles’ hands are in fists by his side. Peter trails his fingers along surfaces, giving Stiles something akin to a sultry look. Stiles suddenly realises Peter’s trying to seduce him, and shudders.  

“This isn’t exactly new information,” Stiles points out.

This gets an outright laugh, and an appreciative smirk. Stiles shivers in revulsion inwardly.

“They all have one factor in common, Stiles.” Peter slinks towards him, there’s no other word for it, and Stiles holds his ground as Peter circles him. “You.”

“They all like  _The Avengers,”_ Stiles points out. “They all have shockingly poor communicative skills. They’re all male. They’re pretty gay. They’re all reasonably sane. Something you can’t exactly brag about, grandpa.”

Peter tightens a hand in the nape of his neck, which makes him suck in a deep breath sharply. There’s the edge of claws, nicking his skin.  So Peter’s told him what he wants; Stiles. Which is  _so_  not happening.

“If I bite you,” he says, mouth at the curve of Stiles’ neck. He can feel his slick tongue and the point of his fangs, and he feels faintly nauseated. “Then they will follow me.” He lifts Stiles’ hand and brings it to his mouth. He wets the fabric of Stiles’ tux with the edge of his teeth when he smiles.

“Actually, they’ll hate you,” Stiles says. “And Derek  _will_ kill you.”

“Because he’s mated with you?” Peter laughs. “Packs are family, Stiles. That’s why I changed Isaac, Scott, Victoria Argent; they’re closest to you. If I bite you, I’ll do what he was too scared to do. This way, no one dies. No one apart from Kate and Christopher, of course. Kate started the fire while her brother helped to conceal it. They deserve to die, really, don’t they? Then we’ll all live happily after. Aside from the Argents.”

Stiles has a feeling he wouldn’t mind throwing in Allison with that Argents-Got-To-Go sentiment, and that steels his resolve. This man can’t be allowed to escape.

“Then I’ll kill you,” Stiles says simply, nausea making his stomach roil. Here’s affirmation that Victoria Argent did die because of him, and he feels  _sick_ , like he swallowed some sort of poisonous liquid. He wants to kill Peter three times over now. Stiles doesn’t mind trying.

“You could try,” Peter says smugly. He opens his mouth, teeth lengthening, and pulls Stiles’ hand closer.

“I’d say more than try,” Stiles says, and whips around so suddenly, he feels dizzy for a moment; he plunges his hand into his suit pocket, grips a handful of silver powder and blows it in Peter’s eyes. Instinctively, Peter lets go of his hand, as he screams and turns away from Stiles, pawing furiously at his eyes. He howls, long and loud, and Stiles takes that as his cue to  _run._

There are no heavy footfalls after him as he crashes out of the same window he came through. He clambers in his car, and God’s on his side, the car starts without a fault.

Stiles drives like a bat out of hell.

II

He stops at his old house. His old,  _old_ house.

The one that had never managed to sell, the one that he still technically owns; the mortgage is all paid up, and the Argents don’t know anything about it. They had let him have privacy, when it came to dealing with his dad’s stuff. He uses the key under the stone, the same key from all those years ago; his heart tightens when he hears the key stick in the lock, like it always used to, when he has to shove the door open; he could never do it, his dad always had to do it, because Stiles wasn't strong enough. He’s strong enough now.

It feels like he was bound to stop at this place, somewhere along the line; like it was a disembodied heart at the centre of town that’s just always calling for him.

The house is entirely empty, all furniture in a storage locker in the next town over. The walls echo of familiarity, and he feels oddly comfortable in this gutted, shell of his house that basically reeks of Stilinski, the faint scent of cinnamon under layers of dust. Vague memories flit back to him.  

He doesn’t know what to do.

Derek still won’t answer his phone, and neither will Scott or Isaac, even though he uses their three rings emergency code. He leaves detailed, swearing messages on their phones, and prays for the best. He know, really, that this means bad things, and Stiles is panicking, even though all his Training is telling him not to. It’s not like he would expect Derek to pick up the phone, after what he said, but the others. He feels his stomach twist in guilt at the very thought of Derek. He ignores it. Or tries to.

He spreads out his weapons on the linoleum kitchen floor, looks at the glint of the metal of his serrated knife, his small bottle of Wolfsbane, the stash of silver powder and the silver knuckle dusters.

He won’t be able to take on an Alpha with this meagre stash of weapons.

His phone rings, making him startle so badly he almost knocks over the bottle of Wolfsbane.

He hasn’t been carrying around his first phone; the only important people in his life would call his second number. But Chris had forced it into his hand earlier on, fully charged, even though Stiles feels a bolt of dread at the phone itself, because it represents all he gave up.

“Hello?” Stiles asks wearily, the unfamiliar number making him alert.

“Stiles?” The voice is feminine, and horribly familiar; Kate.

“What do you want?” Stiles says shortly. She laughs down the line.

“I need some help with a Hunt,” she says slowly, pleasantly, like they’re talking about what they had for dinner. Stiles hears a sharp cry in the background, and his stomach rolls, because that sound is familiar. He’d heard it when he pulled that arrow out of Derek’s shoulder.

He’s barely aware enough through his nausea to note that Kate tells him to come to the tunnels under the Hale house as soon as possible. Then he’s barfing in the sink.

He’s entirely terrified when he’s clear headed enough to think.

They have Derek.

He doesn’t know who he’s fighting against.

He’s being stalked by an Alpha.

The odds aren’t exactly stacked in his favour, are they?

II

He’s met by the familiar figure of Allison above the entrance to the tunnels. She’s no longer wearing her prom dress, but the typical black clothing of the Hunters, while Stiles is still trapped in his monkey suit. She looks nothing like herself.

She’s sullen, and pouty like a child. “Kate won’t let me torture him.”

She used to vomit at the sight of blood.

“Him?” Stiles says offhandedly, like he doesn’t even care. He’s perfected this careless, snarky tone.

“Derek Hale,” Allison says with a roll of her eyes, like it’s obvious. “Under our noses, all this time, can you believe it? Kate says that he tried to attack her outside the restaurant, after prom.”

Which means that Kate was following Stiles, and trapped Derek while he was unaware and vulnerable; this is Stiles’ fault, no doubt about it, and he feels a sick rush of self-hatred.

“Lucky,” Stiles says, and tries to look a little jealous.

“I know,” Allison sighs. “But she won’t let me torture him, even though he’s been helping the Alpha; even though he killed mom. She says that you can though, so torture him for me, okay?”

Her eyes are shining with sincerity. He wants to scream at her, but he doesn’t. He lets her lead her into the Tunnels and into the only inhabitable cell.

There’s dirty water on the floor, faded red by Derek’s blood; Derek is chained to the bars, watching with half-shut eyes. His face doesn’t change when it sees Stiles, he still looks absolutely terrified, and Stiles hates that he associates him with pain and  _them_. He’s shirtless, skin seared with electric burns that are taking their own sweet time to heal, dark jeans stuck to his skin in places with stiff blood.

Kate rises to her feet and slinks towards Allison and Stiles, beaming like crazy. Like this is a  _party._

Stiles holds back his revulsion.

“I thought I’d let you get your groove back,” Kate says, and taps Stiles pleasantly on the shoulder, like any loving aunt would. Bitch. “You can take the next shift. But don’t hurt him too badly; we still need him for the grand finale.”

She places a wooden bat, splattered with blood, with nails sticking out of it, and infused with Wolfsbane in Stiles’ hands. He stares at it a little numbly. All he wants to do is swing it towards Kate.

She tugs Allison away and yanks the door shut behind her. Stiles slams the bat on the nearest surface, which happens to be a Plexiglas table, and watches the impact create lines of shatter outwards. The table falls apart before Derek speaks to him.

“Why are you here?” His voice is quiet and raspy from screaming, Stiles thinks.

“To get you out of here,” Stiles says firmly, and Derek barks out some sort of sound that might be laughter. “It’s Peter. He’s alive, he’s the Alpha, and now’s not the time for  _I told you so_ but you deserve one.”

Derek blanches.

He lets Stiles get the keys hanging by the smashed table and pull him free from the chains. There are lines of seared flesh along the chains, and Stiles realises that Kate’s broken principle number thirty four-  _never use silver on innocent werewolves._

Stiles’ hands are gentle against his skin as he helps him down, but Derek jerks away from him as soon as his feet hit the ground.

“But you don’t even care,” Derek says tonelessly. His eyes are dark and unreadable as they look into Stiles’. His face is hurt, trying to be blank and failing miserably. Stiles loves that all his emotions are spread out on his face, because it helps Stiles know that Derek is really being honest, he does care, even if that seems incomprehensible to Stiles. And he hates himself for it, for making Derek feel bad.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says shortly.

“I know I don’t,” Derek says without a shred of emotion, and Stiles hates that, hates that he made Derek feel like nothing.

“Don’t put words in my mouth,” Stiles says, or half-shouts, really.

“You know what you said,” Derek says, mouth curled into a rueful line. He looks unbearably young, right then, and Stiles remembers that he’s the one causing that look of hurt,  _he_  is. And he can’t stand that.  

“I  _lied_.” Stiles shouts. “Do you think this is easy for me? When this is all my fault?”

“Why would you say that?” Derek says, but his voice is practically a whisper.

“Why do you think?” Stiles laughs, but it’s black laughter, with no humour behind it. “I wasn’t gonna let you effectively kill yourself by fucking me. I love you too damn much for that, okay? So you need to run. As soon as we get out of here, you are leaving Beacon Hills.”

Derek shakes his head furiously, because he’s a stubborn little  _shit._

“How stupid are you?” Derek demands.

“On an average day?” Stiles snaps back. “I say more stupid things before 9am than most people do all day.”

“Easy there,” Derek says, giving Stiles the - _I'm-kind-of-freaked-out-but-in-a-good-way-_ eyebrows. “I am not running away. Not this time. And no matter what, I want you. All of you, your hunting roots, everything, okay? I know that makes me the most stupid werewolf on the planet, but I do.”

 Stiles is speechless. Momentarily, then words break free. “I’m not going to let you use me to hate yourself.”

“I hate myself for a lot of things, Stiles,” Derek says bleakly. “But loving you isn’t one of them, idiot.”

Stiles shivers, all over, and then he’s got Derek pressed against his front. Their hands grasp at each other, just holding the other there, because Stiles has a sneaking suspicion that Derek has missed him as much as he’s missed Derek.

“You still need to run,” Stiles murmurs into the flawless skin of Derek’s shoulder. Derek shakes his head forcefully, blunt human nails digging into Stiles’ back. “You do, Derek. I’ll take care of Kate, trust me, and Peter, too. But you need to get out of here, because you’re dead otherwise. You can set up in the next town over and when they’re both dead, I’ll come and find you. You make mean waffles, so I really would like to move in with you. If that’s okay.”

Derek just  _beams_  at him, there’s no other word for it; there’s a ripple of dimples, a flash of white teeth, and just like that first time, Stiles knows that he’s a goner. Not in a literal sense, but he will be if they don’t get out of here soon. Derek doesn’t look happy, entirely, but Stiles will take what he’s got.

Stiles hands Derek his suit jacket. Thankfully, it’s loose enough that it’s indecent on Derek, but wearable. It just looks like he’s going stripping.

II

“Come on,” Stiles says firmly, edging open the door and poking his head out. There’s no one. He gets an uneasy feeling in the bottom of his stomach, though he can’t say why.

The Hale house stands ahead, bathed in moonlight; lucky enough, it’s the waxing moon, so Stiles knows that Isaac and Scott will be here. Soon. He trusts them.

Stiles can hear the whistle of an arrow, and he knows that that will be the flash. So he yells at Derek to cover his eyes. The next arrow will be the Wolfsbane one. Derek catches that gingerly, hand at the base of the arrow; away from the Wolfsbane tip. And that’s another idea that Kate totally stole from Stiles. Bitch.

Derek tosses it to the ground as Kate’s laughter rings through the clearing. The sound raises the hair on Stiles’ arms, and Derek pales, shudders. Stiles grits his teeth.

Kate and Allison saunter towards them from the east of the clearing.

Allison clutches her arrow, bow notched, pointed at Stiles and Derek; there’s a snotty edge to her sneer, while Kate is just grinning like the lunatic she is.

“I knew it,” Kate grins. “And they call me twisted.”

“They call you more than twisted, Kate,” Stiles shoots back. “Now let Derek go. I’m the one who betrayed you. Betrayed the Argents. He didn’t.”

“No,” Derek says, under his breath, voice firm. Stiles shakes his head in annoyance.

“But he’s just a consolation prize,” Kate grins, and that’s when she lunges towards Derek, dagger in hand.

The same Derek who hasn’t tried to hurt her once, or Allison, or Chris, because he knew that Stiles would be the one who got hurt in the end; the Derek who doesn’t enjoy violence; the Derek who has helped Isaac and Scott get to their feet after being bitten, all because Stiles asked him to.

 So it’s pure instinct when Stiles steps in front of the dagger.

He sees her jubilant grin when it slides into his stomach, below his ribs, thank God; feels it twist in his gut before she dances back to Allison; the dagger is still in his stomach.

Blood drips from his fingers when he pulls it out. Lancing pain shoots from his stomach. He grits his teeth and snaps it back at Kate. She tries to duck, but Stiles is good with throwing knives. Aside from using a gun, it’s his best weapon. So it catches her cheek, a deep gash that wells blood and tears at the very edge of her eye. The dagger spins off into the underbrush as Stiles sags backwards, into Derek’s waiting arms. 

“ _Stiles_ ,” Derek sounds distressed, and his face is horrified when Stiles glances at him. He can’t take his eyes off the Argents; they’re the sort without morals to attack while the other guy has tapped out. Allison’s attending to Kate’s eye, clearly panicked, so they have a second.

 “I’m okay,” Stiles says firmly, willing it to be true. It seems like magic when the pain does begin to disappear, in waves, and he frowns at Derek.

“You took my pain away?” Stiles asks, surprised. He didn’t think that born werewolves liked to do that; rumour has it that they feel received pain more deeply, for some unknown reason.  

“Yes,” Derek says gruffly. “You can fight for a little longer. Any chance you’d let me take you away from here?”

Stiles grins. It’s funny because Derek thought that was even an option, for Stiles. Derek rolls his eyes.

His eyes snap back to the Argents, just in time to see Allison throw a small, unremarkable lilac pouch at Derek. He’s still dizzy with Stiles’ pain, so he doesn’t even think to bat it out of the air, even though it would have been so easy for him to do so. It hits him with a faint  _puff_ , and powder floats in the air. Derek looks shocked for a second before he passes out, dead to the world, but not actually dead. It’s Wolfsbane.

Shit.

Stiles stalks forward, towards the Argents, but stops a few feet away from them. Kate smirks, despite the blood trickling down her face. Allison looks panic stricken, but she hasn’t let go of the bow, so Stiles is still wary. This isn’t his sister.

“Allison,” Stiles pleads.

“ _No_ , Stiles,” she answers, teeth bared. “I needed you and you left me alone, you and dad did when I just needed  _one_  of you. And Kate- she gives me answers, why do you think I called her in the first place?” Allison snarls, as wild as any werewolf that Stiles has killed.

Stiles is speechless, because everything she’s saying is true, and there’s no way to fight back when he did leave her alone with Kate, in a household that isn’t exactly conductive to healing.

He looks at those familiar, warm brown eyes, and knows that she won’t forgive him; knows it with a sick swoop of his stomach that makes him want to cry.

“Could you kill me?” Stiles challenges, eyes darting to Kate. She’s grinning for some inexplicable reason. Psychopath doesn’t even cover it. “Chris-”

“I wouldn’t bring him up if I were you,” Kate smirks. “How well do you think you know your  _father_?” She stalks closer, and Stiles is frozen.

The word is set with enough sarcasm to let a small country float for ten years.

“You think Chris didn’t know that I started the fire?” Kate laughs quietly, grinning like the madman she’s clearly become. “The debt that he owed your dad- he took you in out of  _charity,_ because he went and got a conscience. An extra soldier never goes remiss, though, so we thought you’d be useful, at least.”

“And you think your dad ran in because he wanted to save anyone?” Kate laughs in his ear, horribly close. “Wrong again,  _Stiles._ He ran in because he couldn’t deal with you, his  _stupid_ kid alone.”

She doesn’t expect Stiles to kick her in the stomach- he can tell by the pissed set of her mouth, the way her breath rushes out of her at the moment of impact, the way her limbs sprawl across the dirt. It’s not like he can run, not with Derek still unconscious, but he can enjoy the moment. If only he had popcorn.   

Derek needs to wake up.

Kate clambers gracefully to her feet, spitting out dirt. Stiles is oddly pleased by the twig sticking out of her hair that she hasn’t noticed yet.

“Did I upset you?” Kate asks, twirling another knife in her fingers, wincing a little at the prospect of moving her stomach. Her bad eye winks at him and twitches blood, which is weirdly invigorating. Stiles is glad he made some sort of damage.

The blood is trickling from his stomach at an even pace, because he doesn’t have enough strength in him to fully press down on the wound. It didn’t nick an artery, though, Stiles knows; there’s nowhere near enough blood. He’s lucky. Kind of. He's ruined his suit, which is the only good part about this whole situation.

“You’re not that important,” Stiles shoots back.

“How about you only moved back to Beacon Hills because the Alpha stopped killing in this area?” Kate says slowly, tracing a line of the blade down her fingertip.

To her credit, Allison doesn’t waiver with her hold on the arrow. Just keeps it pointed at Stiles, notched, ready to fly at the twitch of a finger. But she looks desperately confused and her eyes flit from Stiles to Kate, like she’s not quite so sure who to believe anymore.

“You were supposed to move here two years ago,” Kate grins. “When the murders first started; Chris bought the house, bought the furniture, bought the new car. But we decided to wait it out. It had nothing to do with  _you._ You were talking about false ideations of importance? You are a walking one.”

Stiles stomach twists, and it’s nothing to do with the knife wound.

“Kate,” Chris says, voice warning. Stiles blinks. When did he get here?

Speaking of Chris, Stiles maybe wants to punch him a bit. Or a lot.  

“Is it true?” He hears himself ask, in this ragged, pathetic voice that doesn’t sound like him. He doesn’t even feel like himself, which he guesses happens when one gets stabbed.

Chris doesn’t answer, which is answer enough in itself; he glances at his feet, then at Kate, mouth twisted in a grimace.

Stiles shakes his head, disbelieving. Nothing is stable. Nothing is what he thought it was. Even if he knew he couldn’t entirely trust Christopher, he didn’t have reason to hate him with his entire being. Now he does. Kind of. Because there’s still this very stupid part of him that sees him as his father, the guy who taught him how to use a gun, who fought off the first Omega that Stiles tried to take on when he wasn’t ready.

But that man isn’t the same one, to Stiles, who stands in front of him now.

He keeps his face blank.

“Kate, this doesn’t need to end like this,” Chris says, pleading. “We can just get the Alpha and  _go_.”

“And leave this one behind?” Kate replies, in a low hiss, jerking a thumb at Stiles. “He  _knows_. We helped to kill his dad, Chris. He’s not going to let us go that easy.”

“Cruella de  _Vile_  has a point,” Stiles coughs out. He wants to crawl into a ball and cry, but now is not the time. Stiles needs to stay conscious, he needs to fight, he needs to keep Derek and Isaac and Scott safe and falling unconscious would ultimately lead to death, so that’s a no.

He just needs them to come closer. His gun is scattered somewhere in the clearing, but he’s managed to slip on his knuckle dusters. Anyone who comes within a fist swinging length will get a mouthful of their own teeth. Here’s hoping.

Chris twists his mouth into a stubborn line, and makes the major mistake of stepping into Stiles’ bubble to help him to his feet. He swings and doesn’t miss.

The crack of bone underneath his hand is oddly satisfying, as his fist slams into Christopher’s cheek. As is the way that Chris stumbles backwards, cursing, and spitting out a wad of blood. Scattered in the blood are some teeth. Stiles grins, but the movement has made him dizzier than ever, the punch itself having forced him to reach upwards, twisting the stab wound. Shit.

“That’s for my dad, _cunt_.”

Allison yelps out and Kate yells for her brother.

They both take a step closer to Christopher; Kate’s fingers flutter on his cheek, and Stiles feels a wave of revulsion.  _Game of Thrones_ flashes through his mind.

“Anyone else find it ironic that you taught me how to punch?” Stiles says. His voice is unrecognisable; weak, strained, terrified sounding.

“Anyone find it ironic that I  _was_ going to let you live-” Kate snarls, stepping forward.

She’s cut off by the slam of a werewolf into her.

To be precise, the Alpha werewolf.

It looks like Peter got sick of being patient. Or being the patient.

He drags her, kicking, screaming and clawing into the Hale house, then slams the door with a neat snap. Chris and Allison run, yelling after her, and Stiles finds Derek.

“Come on,” he mutters. Derek’s eyes flutter a little, but the way they do when he dreams.

So Stiles punches him.

It’s effective, even though Stiles gets a sickening swoop in his stomach when his hand connects with Derek’s stubbled cheek (he doesn’t use the hand with the knuckle dusters, for the record). Derek comes to with a bleeding Stiles on top of him.

Stiles can feel that all the blood has drained out of him, and everything seems to swirl around him. The next thing he realises is that he’s held in a cradle of Derek’s arms, back against the forest floor. It’s bad, really, because all those quick motions has set off the pain and agony of his stomach.

“Der’k?” Stiles says, or whispers, really, and shit, is he the one making those humiliating whimpering sounds?

Nope, that’s actually Derek.

Stiles is making the death-is-approaching gurgling, groaning sounds. Wonderful.

“You’re gonna be okay.” And Derek’s tone leaves no room for argument. Stiles is okay with this.

“Wanna bet?” Stiles gurgles. Derek’s forehead furrows just that little bit. A.k.a. he frowns a lot.

“Don’t you fret, Monsieur Marius,” Stiles starts whispering and Derek just frowns  _harder_.

“No.” He says, showing his teeth, eyes glittering electric blue. “Shut up. You are not going to die.”

“I’ve always wanted to sing Les Mis while I die,” Stiles laughs, body jerking like crazy because the blood flowing from his stomach is just not stopping, and he can feel poison or something flooding over his skin. Right. Stomach acid. Beautiful. “Romance, right?”

“Let me give you the bite.” Derek says, gritting his teeth so hard it has to hurt.

Before Stiles can even think to say no, everything seems to flow into motion, like a jam in a video tape has just come undone.

Chris comes flying out of the house, followed by Allison. Chris learns his lesson about deceleration from a tree, whereas Allison just hits the ground and doesn’t get up. Neither of them do, and he wants not to care, but he can’t help but reach out for Allison.

Peter saunters out of the Hale house like he’s at a party. He wipes Kate’s blood on his hands on a rotting porch pillar, looking supremely satisfied with himself. He snaps Allison’s bow and throws it at her feet. The crack of the arrow reminds Stiles of snapping bone, and he winces. Allison keeps playing dead, but he can see some indication of a pulse fluttering in her cheek. He guesses Kate never got round to teaching her how to slow her heartbeat.

Stiles feels a flare of unadulterated fear as his ruby eyes settle on Stiles and Derek.

Peter gets three sauntering, dramatic steps forward before a set of headlights blind him. He staggers a little, before he puts a hand in front of his face, eyes pure scarlet in the light, canines well past his chin. The only trouble with excellent, acute eyesight, is that it is extremely sensitive to extreme changes in brightness.

Scott, Isaac and Boyd clamber out of the car in question; Scott’s mom’s car. They have bottles of what looks like Molotov cocktails (Isaac taught them how to make it in Chemistry) clutched in their hands, and they throw the three bottles at Peter, one at a time.

Scott’s first bottle just makes Peter growl, because he catches it. Stiles’ breath catches in his throat when it looks like he’s going to throw it back at them, but Isaac’s throw actually smashes into the first bottle, making both explode. And suddenly Peter’s stumbling around the clearing, on fire, howling in anguish. The smell of barbeque makes Stiles want to hurl, but all his food is currently spilling across his stomach, so that’s a no.

Scott and Isaac wince.

But it’s Boyd’s throw, the one that hits him dead centre chest, that takes Peter down to the ground.

As it slams into Peter’s chest, Stiles looks up at Boyd. His face screams jubilance at his  _release_. He’s avenged Erica and removed that splinter of glass he’s had in his heart for two years.

Derek’s mouth is set in a grim line as he watches his uncle howl in misery, writhing in flames that are swiftly disappearing.

 “Derek, you’ve got to do this, it’s got to be you. You’re the only one here who can do this. Not them.” Stiles spits out- literally- flecks of blood land on Derek’s cheek. His hand caresses Stiles’ cheek.

“Don’t. Die.” Derek says, orders, really, and Stiles likes it when Derek goes bossy, he’s decided.

It’s a good look on him, even though it makes Stiles want to rebel, because he’s not usually a fan of authority. Though the thought of moving makes him want to give into the dark/numb feeling he can feel at the edge of his eyeline, so Stiles is just going to stay lying on the ground, thanks.

“Stiles!” Scott yelps, and he can hear Isaac and Scott yelling for him.

His eyes find them, and he gives them a slow, badass wink. They rush to his side, Boyd in tow, as Derek stalks towards Peter. Derek’s eyes are flaring electric blue even as Peter’s fade.

Scott and Isaac do the dumb thing and yank Stiles to his feet.

Stiles tells them to go  _fuck_  themselves with cacti.

He says it in a loving way, though. Boyd laughs, hushed and almost silent, but Stiles is hit by a wave of warmth. He likes making people laugh who haven’t laughed in years. It’s his thing. 

Derek stands over Peter, back to Stiles and the others. Scott, Isaac and Boyd form a protective perimeter around Stiles, even though that leaves him vulnerable to the Argents at his back. From the glance that he takes, however, it seems the Argents are broken and bloody; Chris is still passed out, and Allison is having difficulty dragging herself over to her father, let alone her broken bow, and Kate’s long dead.

Peter smiles up at Derek, but it’s not really a smile, just Peter baring his teeth at Derek.

“You- you wouldn’t kill me.” Peter gets out, breath rattling in his incinerated chest. “You’re alone, you and Stiles, you need a pack more than  _anyone_ -”

And that’s where Peter’s wrong.

If he thinks that Derek’s weak, that he’s not strong enough to kill Peter because he doesn’t have a pack, he doesn’t know Derek. Doesn’t know that he’s fiercely moral, and Peter killed Derek’s elder sister- the only family he had left- and he threatened Stiles and bit Isaac and Scott without their consent; there’s no way Derek would let him live.

Stiles hates that Derek is put in this position.

Derek slashes his claws across Peter Hale’s throat, and his eyes are red when they flash back to Stiles.

They’ve won.

Stiles is hit by a wave of arousal, it has to be said. But as that recedes, dizziness overcomes him. Abruptly, he’s in Derek’s arms, blood-red eyes boring into his, burning into his. He’s going to have those eyes burned into the back of his brain for the rest of his life, however long that is.

“Call a fucking ambulance,” Derek snaps at the others, and there’s a panicked flurry until Boyd—the organiser/mother hen, Stiles has decided—produces an old flip phone.

“How are you still alive?” Derek sounds awed, pleased and a little amused, even.

“Well, you see, Tommy used to work on the docks. Union’s been on strike. He’s down on his lucky stuff. So tough…” Each word is brittle, shaking, but Stiles has a point to make, dammit.

“Do not tell me you are  _living on a prayer_.” Derek grinds out and Stiles laughs. The movement shakes his stomach, and this time, he does pass out.

Derek’s arms are there to catch him before he hits the ground.

II

When he comes to, he’s propped upright in a hospital bed. He’s never had much practical experience with hospitals, but now seems like a great time to start.

The angle of Derek’s neck in the chair nearest the bed makes him wince.

“Derek,” he says, voice cracking from disuse.

Derek shudders against the bed, and abruptly his eyes fly open. His hands go for a remote control at Stiles’ side, which makes Stiles blink. It’s not the one that gives him more drugs, that’s next to his hand. The slow throb of pain in his stomach makes him want to reach for that one, but he wants- needs- to be awake for this.

“ _Stiles_ ,” Derek breathes out, and his mouth curves into something that involves too much concerned frowning to really be a smile, but it’s a hopeful curve that makes Stiles’ stomach flutter.

Melissa McCall, flanked by Isaac and Scott shove the door by his feet open, and Stiles gets it.

The remote control was the button that summons a nurse. Maybe Scott and Isaac were waiting anxiously in the waiting room, which, judging by the dirty look of Isaac, Scott and Derek, they all look like they were doing. They all need showers. Stiles loves them.

“Stiles!” Scott exclaims, smiling fully. Isaac’s grinning at Stiles. Melissa’s frowning, checking for signs of distress or upset. Judging by the perfectly healthy heartbeat monitor, she rolls her eyes.

“Welcome back, Stiles,” she says, smiling behind her disgruntled appearance, before she drags out Scott and Isaac. They whine about things being unfair, but that doesn’t stop her from shutting the door, but not before she gives Derek a firm look.

“That’s going to be an awkward conversation,” Stiles says slowly, and Derek’s eyes widen almost comically. “She’s going to give you the father-boyfriend talk. Or, mother-boyfriend talk.”

“Great,” Derek says sarcastically, eyebrows screaming horror. Stiles suppresses a grin.

“You’re an Alpha, you can take it,” Stiles points out, and Derek starts.

“You remember.” It’s a question. Derek’s pretty eyes scan over Stiles’ face, like he wants to commit it to memory.

“I remember you, very sexily I might add, flashing the eyes at me.” Stiles grins, winking at Derek. It makes him huff like a grumpy old man. Stiles grins harder.

“The first thing I wanted to see with these eyes was you.” Derek grits his teeth.

“That look like it hurt.” Stiles says, which makes Derek sigh and roll his eyes.

“I was trying to be romantic.”

“Ground out words are my favourite,” Stiles says solemnly, which makes Derek huff. “So. What’s the tally?”

Derek raises his eyebrows like the sassy little shit he totally is; they read, _I’m-not-a-fucking-psychic—explain-yourself-you-devastatingly-attractive-moron_.

“Battle scars. Death kisses.” Stiles elaborates. “War Wounds-”

“Shut up,” Derek says, poking him in the leg. “You had a ruptured spleen. You had to have surgery and the doctors induced a coma but you’re okay now.”

“You hope,” Stiles snorts, and stretches. He feels an ache in his stomach, but he can’t see his guts, so that’s a plus.

“I do hope,” Derek says, jaw clenched. “You don’t need to throw yourself in front of a knife for me, Stiles. I heal. You don’t. It’s as simple as that. I don’t want to have to sleep in a hospital room, or pick you up from a hospital, or smell  _pain_ on you, Stiles, I don’t want that.”

Stiles comforts him with a small hushing sound, and a hand that cards through his soft, dark waving hair, and that makes his agitated voice and face dissipate a little.

“I won’t get injured for you ever again, I swear,” Stiles says, and it’s a complete lie, which makes Derek frown again. “Come on. I’m fine now, aren’t I? Stilinskis heal fast. ” 

“They- we- were just waiting for you to wake up,” Derek says, a half-smile tugging at the edges of his lips.

His forehead is still furrowed with a nervous air to it. Stiles puts his fingers against the little creases and strokes the flawless skin of his forehead. It seems almost inconceivable that Derek is even a little bit human- because he just feels so different, to Stiles. His hair grows in thicker, his skin is petal soft to touch, without a scattering of freckles and moles; in a word, he’s perfect. And he wants Stiles.

That’s a little difficult to still wrap his head around, mostly because he’s never been in a committed long term relationship, it feels so _adult_.

“You can go home today, probably,” Derek finishes, voice a little rough from Stiles’ touches. Stiles suppresses a grin but does do a pretty amazing wink, which he’s sure Derek appreciates. Deep down.

“And where is that, exactly?” Stiles gathers up all the bravery in his body and asks. Derek jerks in surprise, but grins.

“Well, Scott and Isaac put all your shit in my apartment, so…” Derek trails off, eyes sparkling and warm as they look at him, hardly questioning.

“So I guess moving in with you is the only logical explanation,”   Stiles acquiesces. Derek nods, accepting. He moves closer to Stiles, eyes dipping down to look at his lips before they travel up to Stiles’ eyes, asking. Stiles nods and moves closer.

“So Boyd asked for the bite,” Derek says quickly, before he noses at the edge of Stiles’ lips. Stiles parts them for Derek. He nips vindictively at Stiles bottom lip, which makes Stiles whimper plaintively, because his teeth are sharp, fuck, and his tongue is hot as hell as he soothes the bite.

“You are not talking to me about your Pack while we make out.” Stiles says, panting a little. The heartbeat monitor is really embarrassing.

“ _Our_  pack,” Derek corrects grumpily. Stiles grins crookedly and yanks Derek down for another kiss.

That’s rudely interrupted by a coughing sound.

Chris Argent stands alone in the doorway, face scattered by bruises, particularly on the crushed in right side of his face. Stiles is pleased by  _that_ injury.

Stiles blanches. He knew that they would have to talk eventually, but preferably while Stiles was fully clothed. And without a boner. And a Derek practically in his lap.

“Derek, can you get me some ice chips,” Stiles says, because that seems like a typical hospital request. Derek clenches his jaw but to his credit, gets up.

“I’ll be _right_ outside,” he warns Chris, and stalks out. Chris flinches as he passes. Stiles grins a little. He knew Derek would have to get a shot in there somewhere.

“Stiles-” Chris starts, settling down in the seat Derek just vacated.

“No.” Stiles says, gritting his teeth. “For once, I’m going to talk, and you’re going to listen. You owe me that.”

“You shouldn’t talk to your dad that way-” Chris butts in, and Stiles wants to hit something, he really does.

“You’re not my dad,” Stiles points out. “And yeah, I owe you a lot. I owe you everything I know, everything that’s made me who I am. But you- you  _knew_ what Kate did to the house, to Derek, and you just covered it up. You didn’t take me in out of the goodness of your heart, dammit, you just needed to hide the evidence. And you just  _used_  me.” His eyes are filled with tears, and the heartbeat monitor is going crazy with his distress.

Chris doesn’t deny anything, just stares at his hands, and that makes everything feel so much worse.

“You wanted me to be this perfect soldier,” Stiles says, voice cracking. “And I can’t be. I’m just not. I can’t be an Argent, knowing what you did. Knowing what you helped to hide. If being an Argent and a Hunter means just helping to cover up some crazy, corrupt community, then I won’t do it.”

He brushes a hand at his stinging eyes, but pushes forward the list of principles, folded and yellowed beyond belief. The ones Derek had been reading on the night stand.

Chris just nods seriously, disappointment plain on his face. “We’re leaving town the day after tomorrow.”

"Allison?" Stiles asks, because she was his sister. They've grown up together, and Stiles needs to know that she's okay. 

"She didn't want to see you," Chris says bluntly, jaw clenched. "She's coming with me. You know that there's always a space with us if you ever want it."

“No,” Stiles says. He thinks of Derek, Scott, Isaac, and Boyd, and he can’t leave. For once, he’s going to stay. And change his name back to Stilinski by deed poll. And move in with Derek. Christ. Talk about Lifetime movie. 

“I’m sorry,” Chris says, frowning. He picks up the principles and goes to pat Stiles’ head, like he used to whenever Stiles made a good shot at the firing range, but thinks better of it at his glare, and leaves.

Stiles aches for Allison, worries about her, but he can’t think about her too much because he’ll just ask Chris Argent to come back, and that’s the worst thing he could do, for everyone involved.

Stiles sits, chest heaving, for a good full minute before Derek returns with his ice chips.

“Can we get goldfish?” Stiles asks. He’s never owned a pet.

Derek just smiles, a bright hopeful curve that just seems to light up the freaking room.

Stiles loves it. But he didn’t get an answer about those damn fish.  

II

A year later, Derek’s sitting on the dining table, after he’s wiped it down because apparently studying on a surface that still reeked of come (to his nose, at least) was ‘gross, Stiles, come  _on_.’

Stiles is lying on the couch, half-dead after another difficult day at the police academy, watching the Mets do their thing against the St Louis Cardinals, or the Neanderthals.

Stiles has ambition, okay, he’s going to make Sheriff one day, when he can stop dying at the police academy. He practically runs that place, already, with a heady cocktail of expensive Starbucks coffee and weekly baked treats (that he bribes Scott to make). He knows that he would make his mom and dad proud.

The Stilinskis were practically Blue Bloods; law enforcement is in his blood and his destiny. The name Stilinski still has power, and when Stiles arrived and saw the flash of fear in the Sheriff’s eyes, he was never gladder that he’d changed his last name back.

 Stiles knows that he's going to be Sheriff one day, and he's going to do it for his dad, Derek and himself. 

While Derek’s going to get his Master’s Degree in Engineering, studying online. What a badass. No, seriously, the guy runs a pack with Stiles (comprised of Isaac, Scott and Boyd), keeps the order around Beacon Hills (Isaac and Scott are in a committed relationship, there’s a lot of chaos)  _and_ manages to be awesome and do things for Stiles like hunting down his mom’s Jeep for him (that may be a little ill-intentioned, he just does not get on with Delilah and wants to do Stiles in the backseat).

Stiles sometimes has nightmares about Kate Argent and the Alpha returning, but it doesn't matter, because Derek's there to hold him through the aftershocks, to kiss the hurt away. He's there for Derek when the anniversary of the fire arrives, when Laura's birthday passes, and as it turns out, they're both excellent comforters and snugglers. 

Allison writes to him.

At first she sent tentative postcards, from Paris and then Texas, but now she writes detailed letters, pages and pages that arrive every Thursday. She talks about their mom a lot, their childhood and in general what she’s doing; right now it’s a happy mix of yoga, meditation and krav maga. She decided to ground herself in New York, by day studies photography at NYU and by night, teaches self-defence at a community centre. He worried that she was lonely at first, but now she talks about Lydia being there, studying at Columbia. He thinks she’s happier for it. He’s not sure when they’ll meet again, but it’ll happen soon.

Stiles perks up a little as Jon Niese pitches another no hitter, because he is that awesome.

“I love Niese,” he says, mostly to himself, grinning as the best team ever levels the score.

Derek glances up at the TV, and then scoffs. Scoffs.

_Scoffs._

At the  _Mets._

Hell no.

“The Mets suck,” he says offhandedly, at his books, as if his words haven’t crushed the foundations of Stiles’ soul.

“No way in hell. Derek, it’s over,” Stiles says half-serious, mortally wounded. Derek jerks his head upwards, face terrified, like he thinks Stiles is being serious for half a second, (which he totally kind of isn’t) before he smirks, like the giant dick he is (and has, Stiles is lucky).

Derek grumbles and closes his book. He stalks to Stiles and just lays one on him, a bruising kiss that partially makes up for the words that have torn Stiles apart. He might be acting a little melodramatic, but it is justified, dammit.  

“But they haven’t won a world series since 2000,” Derek wheedles, placing glancing, butterfly kisses against Stiles’ neck, ones that confuse his brain a little. So it’s a minute before he responds.

“Since when have you been an expert in baseball?” Stiles demands, panting minutely.

“I played varsity baseball in high school,” Derek points out. “And I have a brain. The Yankees are  _clearly_ the best team in the League.” When Derek nips his throat, Stiles bites his lip in order to cut off a  _whine._ Judging by the curl of Derek’s lips, and the devastating kiss he gives Stiles, he heard.

“Get out.” Stiles says, then punctuates it with a nip to Derek’s pulse point.

“You’re a torment, Jesus,” Derek huffs against Stiles’ cheek.

“Stiles, actually. The lesser known movie.” The words are of a higher pitched than usual, but who’s judging? Not Derek, judging by the slack shape of his mouth, the appreciative drag of his eyes on Stiles’ torso.

At this, he groans and drags Stiles off to their bedroom. 

 


	2. A brief update

Hi!!

If anyone's reading this, kudos to you. I hope you've enjoyed what was essentially the most self-indulgent fic  _ever._

I've just updated this work with some edits that I couldn't help but notice, and I hope that you enjoy the newer version if you enjoyed the old one?

Equally, if anyone wants a chapter on Ally in New York with Lydia, or more Stiles and Derek post. Alphage, let me know, because I would be super into that. 

Thanks guys!!

xxxxxxxxxx

 

 


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